nice guy syndrome

2011-12-31T08:03:00.001-05:00

I'm putting some of my drawings and other visual art

here now

drawings blog

2011-11-12T10:57:00.001-05:00

I've started putting some of my drawings
here

"The Meeting on the Turret Stair" in International Poetry Review

2011-06-29T20:15:00.000-04:00

My poem "The Meeting on the Turret Stair" is in the Spring 2011 issue of International Poetry Review

Steven Elliot on "Fox and Friends" Discussing the Rare Burger Ban

2011-05-20T12:37:00.003-04:00

Watch

"One Rare, Fined"

2011-05-19T15:37:00.004-04:00

My essay "One Rare, Fined" is at Steven Elliot's Rare Burger

"North Carolina's Rare Burger Ban Makes Red Meat Illegal (VIDEO)"

2011-05-19T12:40:00.001-04:00

This article on the North Carolina rare burger ban features Steven Elliot's thoughts on the subject.

Interview with Steven Elliot, Proprietor of Falls River Books

2011-01-14T07:39:00.011-05:00

Steven Elliot

I interviewed Steven Elliot, proprietor of the wonderful Falls River Books in Raleigh (directions here).

1. You have a great selection of old paperbacks, including pulp fiction from Fawcett Gold Medal. What's interesting about these books? Who are your favorite authors who were published in this format?

Fawcett was an innovative publisher, launching the career of thousands of authors, but by far John D. Macdonald is my favorite writer published by them. They also chose great illustrators and their cover art is outrageous. First and foremost, I derive a great pleasure from saving old and forgotten books from the trash heap, and I pride myself for shelving books that other stores reject. They just do not know what they are missing.

2. You also carry a wide selection of books of poetry, including out-of-print titles from small presses. Why is it important to you to have a good poetry section?

Poetry has an existence akin to ephemera. It is generally printed in limited quantities, is hard to find, and quickly goes out-of-print. Most poets are unknown and not because of their lack of talent. Also the quality of poetry, more so than any other type of writing, is subjective. Just because you may not care for a particular poem, it does not mean that others may not find it to be sublime. Because of these aforementioned qualities I shelve every book of poetry we receive. I think the store is more complete since we have this collection.

3. What is your background in book selling?

I have been selling books for close to twenty years. In addition to Falls River Books I own a store in Durham called Northgate Books, and I owned two landmark used bookstores in Miami.

4. What kind of experience are you hoping your customers will have?

I am an introverted extrovert, and Falls River Books is a habitat in which I thrive. It is designed to feel like my living room. I want you to feel like a guest, and I will be your host. In Falls River Books, as in all of my bookstores, I have created an environment akin to a room in your home. A place where you almost feel comfortable wearing your pajamas, but please wear some real clothes, will you. A bookstore should be like a bar for bookaholics. Feel free to share your sorrows with your bartender.

5. What are some of the events you host? Which organizations do you donate books to?

Falls River Books is community oriented first. We host open mics, writers meet ups, trivia tournaments, local author signings, and many other events. We also allow charities such as Girls Help, Brownies, Safe Haven for Cats, and other charities to use the store for fundraisers. Also Falls River Books founded the North Raleigh Farmers Market which is hosted right through our back door. We donate books to any charity that requests them--literally thousands of books per year.

6. The logo for Falls River Books is based on the silhouette of a dog. What dog is it based on? I get the impression that you like dogs and are interested in animal welfare.

Our logo is a likeness of Lily, my ten year-old Dachshund. An intern designed the logo for the Kendall Bookshelf, my first store in Miami. Lily used to be a store dog, but she became ornery when she got older and now resides at home with my family. We have always been interested in dogs, have participated in many dog welfare events in conjunction with the store, and we maintain a pet friendly business. By all means bring your pet with you.

7. What are some of your interests besides books?

I am interested in many pursuits beyond books. An internet junkie I read thousands of online articles per week on art, science, history and politics. I like to post the most interesting examples online. I am also passionate cook and to those ends I have recently opened a restaurant in Durham called the Sweet Tea Cafe. Also I am a film junkie, and like old classics, foreign films, quirky comedies, and just about anything else on celluloid.

8. What are some of the more unusual books that have come into the store?

The most unusual book I have encountered is extremely rare. It is an eighteenth century copy of Dance of Death by Holbein. Decorated with skulls and a skeleton holding a saber on its foredge, this copy is bound in human skin. I have yet to find a buyer for this book!

9. Is there a rare book you haven't been able to find yet?

Thus far I have located a copy of every book I have ever searched for. If I cannot find the book it probably never existed.

10. What is your motto in life?
Do onto others as you would have others do onto you. - Hillel

Guided by Voices-inspired greeting card

2010-12-16T16:06:00.000-05:00

Whoever designed this American Greetings thank-you card is obviously a Guided by Voices fan!

Cold Remedies

2010-10-07T08:31:00.006-04:00

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Without prejudice to the generality of the foregoing paragraph, TIM BOTTA does not warrant that:

the medical information on this website will be constantly available, or available at all; or

the medical information on this website is complete, true, accurate, up-to-date, or non-misleading.

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You must not rely on the information on this website as an alternative to medical advice from your doctor or other professional healthcare provider.

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What we call the "common cold" is uncommonly frustrating and miserable. Who can stand the smothering feeling of congested sinuses? Or being woken up every three seconds because of a cough or sore throat or involuntary throat clearing? Or not being able to fall asleep at all because of that stuffed-up nose? And if you do fall asleep, you don't fall asleep very deeply...the dreams are irritating, they barely qualify as dreams, more like disconnected thoughts that make no sense but pretend to. What can be worse than a nasty cold? They don't call it a "rhino-virus" for nothing--since the miserable things come charging through your system like a rhinoceros.

As Bluto Pippy writes, in "The Head Cold":

Who filled these nostrils with inharmonious,
Uneuphonious stones?
Who filled these nostrils with pillows?
Pillows and dusty, stuffy cushions.
Now there are rills
From my nostrils.
My nostrils have been walled off
With a wall of concrete.
Would that my head
Were carved from a large, cool mint.
I cannot breathe the spring breezes.
I cannot breathe.
The aroma of barbecue
Cannot enter the futuristic furniture of my nostrils!
Nasty bug,
Vacate my nose!

--Bluto Pippy, from Inter-Departmental Mail

If you are suffering from a cold right now, I do not envy you. In fact, I wouldn't wish that kind of thing on my worst enemy (well...). But if you are suffering, take heart! There is relief available. I was able to take advantage of available natural resources to relieve my misery, and you can too!
Some things to do when you have a bad cold:

1. Steam ("Na, Na, Na, Na, Na, Na, Na, Na, Kiss that Congestion Goodbye!")

First, remember to be safe and careful. Steam can be hot. You must be sure to regulate the temperature so that you don't harm yourself. Got it? Be careful. Make sure the steam is of a safe temperature. Turn on your shower to hot and let the bathroom fill up with steam. Now you will have turned your home bathroom into a sauna worthy of a Hollywood movie mogul. What could be better than that? The steam will break up the congestion like nobody's business. Also, as long as you are careful, try a warm compress on your chest. The warmth will also work to bust up that stuff in your chest.

2. Chinese Remedies

Do you like hot, spicy food? I do. And I like it even more when I have a cold. A great way to get over a cold is to order in some Chinese food like Hot & Spicy chicken and Hot & Sour soup. Another great way to break up the congestion and move that cold along! Think of the times you've complained when spicy food made your nose run--now it's to your advantage! Don't you feel a little guilty that you complained before?

3. Saline Away!

Are you addicted to those medicinal nose sprays? Just can't breathe without 'em? That's because remedies like that have a rebound effect. They end up causing your sinuses to be more swollen in the end. That's why I've stopped using them and only use saline spray now. Saline spray is just that--a saline spray. You Latinists will recall that "saline" derives from the Latin word for "salt." Salt spray in your nostrils--think of how cleansing and refreshing that will be. It really gets the gunk out of there. And all without that nasty rebound effect.

4. Sleep In

Yes, we live in a 24/7, connected, postmodern world, where everybody's at work all the time, even in their sleep. But to recover from a cold, you must get rest and you must sleep. Much as it goes against the postmodern grain to do so, you must take some time out for yourself to get better. You'll be amazed at how quickly you will recover if you will just allow your body's healing energies to work it out on their own. It's kind of like your body is a cellphone and your energy is the battery. Let's say you're running out of battery charge. Do you immediately start using the internet on your phone and taking pictures and playing games and so on? No, you let it rest. So be like a computer and hibernate!

5. Overcome Hydrate-Phobia!

Yes, you must drink plenty of fluids to get better. Drink water. Drink herbal tea. Drink green tea. These things will really help. Think of yourself as one of those dehydrated instant dinosaurs--you just add water and they flourish!

Now, the above musings on head colds will not appeal to those of us who want the quick fix and the instant gratification. Realize however that those kinds of medicines have rebound effects. They do things to your sinuses to make them feel better for a little while, but then your sinuses are in worse shape than before. So I don't like those kinds of remedies. Because when I do the things above, I may not feel instantly better, but when the cold does go away, it goes away a lot sooner and it doesn't linger.

Remember, there is always a price to pay for instant gratification. Personally, I think that a lot of cold medicines out there are the equivalent of junk food. It might make you feel good for a moment, but then you hate yourself later when the consequences hit home.

I would much rather research the ancient wisdom and see what's available out there that doesn't involve nasty rebound effects and the prolonging of the cold. I would rather seek out knowledge about how to restore my body's balance.

Restaurant Review: Return to the Tarnished Ladle

2010-09-24T21:19:00.003-04:00

After posting my review of the abomination that is the Tarnished Ladle, I received an email from the owner. I have received his permission to reproduce this communication here:

I've read your review of my place, and I have to admit it--buddy, I just don't get it. Did you go to the real Tarnished Ladle, or did you get disorientated somewhere along the way and wind up at Bowl of Glop or something? I mean, your article has little or no relation to my eatery and what we do here. Your article is comical at best, and somewhat insane. But I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt, and invite you back. I want to show you what the Tarnished Ladle is really about--not the fantasy story that you wrote. So here's what I'm going to do. You come down to the Tarnished Ladle, any day, any time, and I will personally greet you at the door and show you what we do here on a daily basis. I will personally be your host, maitre d', waiter, waitron, server, chef, and dishwasher! And I think you're going to be pleasantly surprised!

I'm sure as you read this e-mail you had the same reaction I did. This communication is nothing more than a thinly veiled (I'm talking see-through) threat. Obviously, the owner--or CEO as he styles himself--of the Tarnished Ladle had a problem with me posting a truthful, accurate review of his establishment. And now he's "inviting" me back. Yeah, he's inviting me back all right. Greet me at the door? That sounds terrifying. Terrifying and menacing. But as always, I will take the supreme risk for you, my readers. And so, here is my full report concerning the RETURN TO THE TARNISHED LADLE.

As I pulled my car into the scant parking lot of the Tarnished Ladle, I noticed a beefy guy standing by some traffic cones and a velvet rope. The guy was wearing a weird chauffeur's outfit that didn't fit him in the least and seemed to be made of black vinyl. "Hey!" he bellowed at me. "Hey hey hey hey hey!" Terror gripped my brain as I sat there idling, looking through the windshield at this behemoth as he approached.

"Are you the food journalist?" he asked. I nodded. He signaled me to get out of my vehicle. I did so. "Didn't I tell you in my e-mail you were getting full service today? That means...valet parking!" This man, obviously the owner of the Tarnished Ladle, plopped into the driver's seat of my car and pulled it into a parking space stenciled CUSTOMER OF THE CENTURY...AND BEYOND!

The owner locked my car door and led me to the entrance of the Tarnished Ladle. "Now do you get that kind of service at Pork Belleez? I think not." The air in the parking lot was palpable with terror and menace. I was aware at every moment that what seemed to be a friendly conciliatory gesture on the part of the owner may have been nothing more than a crude set-up. What would happen to me once I stepped into the lobby of the Tarnished Ladle? Terrifying fantasies oppressed my inner eye as I followed the owner to the hostess station.

"What was all that horse hockey about a wax dummy? My hosts and hostesses are lively, vibrant professionals!" The owner jumped behind the lectern. He made a big show of looking over a seating chart then looked up at me as though I had startled him. With false alacrity, he said, "Will you be dining alone, sir? Or have you company?"

It's always weird when a Bluto clone like the owner is polite. I mean, I appreciate it, but it's always unexpected. "I'll be dining alone," I muttered bitterly. "We dine alone as we later die alone. It's just a question of one letter's difference," I said.

The owner pounded the lectern, guffawing. "Where do you get these gags, Las Vegas? You should put some of that humor in your articles, buddy. Here, walk this way," he said, speaking that last phrase with the kindness people throw into a factual statement when they feel pleased by you because you made them laugh. Shaking his head, the owner walked into the dining room. Amazingly, though not surprisingly, the dining room had completely changed since my last visit.

It was exquisite.

I can't explain to you how a sordid, shabby, moth-eaten type of diner suddenly becomes transformed into a sparkling, atmospheric, sophisticated eatery. But this transformation happened...seemingly overnight. And I cannot explain it!

Almost like a character in some medieval folk tale, the dining room of the Tarnished Ladle went from horrible to wonderful as though with the stroke of a magic basting bulb.

The tablecloths, which before were mildewed and put iron bands of terror around the soul, were now bright and laundered, like laundry in some television commercial. The horrid fluorescent lighting had been replaced with jazzy ceramic fixtures, orange-spotted cylinders that created a warm ambiance in the room.

"So what do you think?" the owner said. "Cool, huh?"

It was certainly a change from my last visit. But this may have simply been a cosmetic operation. Maybe the essence of the Tarnished Ladle was still the same. The only way that I would know would be to taste the food.

"Your server will be right with you," the owner stated. He spread his hands out as though balancing and spun around. "I'll be taking care of you this evening," the owner said. "What would you like to drink?"

I asked to see the wine list. The owner said, "Let me call in the Wine Cryer."

Huh?

A man dressed in a tricorne hat with a large lavender artificial feather stuck into it, a coat, and tights, stepped into the room and began shouting out the names of wines from a scroll he'd unrolled. Just to stop him, I chose one of the first wines on the list, an introverted Cabernet.

The wine was palatable--potable? I was a bit disturbed when the Wine Cryer informed me that it was available in both Regular and Diet, but I soldiered on and drank it...again, as I remind you, for you!

Instead of the clear broth I had last visit, this time I had the Cool Whip soup in a cantaloupe bowl. Fantastic! The owner wasn't kidding--the Tarnished Ladle maybe wasn't as tarnished as it first appeared. It was as though a tarnished ladle had itself been dipped into that liquid they used to advertise on UHF television during the daytime...way back when...when I used to sit spellbound by the antics of the Galloping Gourmet. Rubber chickens are falling from the ceiling!

Suddenly, the image of a rubber chicken dropping onto a stove snapped me back to reality. Fear seized my mind in its grip. This had to be an illusion! Nobody could makeover a dump like the Tarnished Ladle in that short a time. Who knows what sort of trickery was working behind the scenes to make the Ladle appear to be an acceptable, even excellent dining establishment.

"This can't be real," I murmured to myself, slapping the table over and over. "This just can't be real!" I jumped back from the table. Out-of-tune trumpets shrilled as the room spun and purple polka-dots whirled through the air, ending in a plummeting black-out.

* * * * *

When I awoke, I looked around me to see that the Tarnished Ladle was once again Tarnished. Perhaps it had only been an illusion, perhaps it had been real but temporary, but the eatery was no longer the Polished Ladle. I creakily rose to my feet. The dining room was empty, and the owner was nowhere to be seen. The eerie aria of the ceramic doll began once more. I had to get out of here. Disoriented, I tried to remember how to get back to the lobby. I took what I thought was the exit, but found myself in a corridor bound on one end by a pair of swinging doors into the kitchen, on the other by a unisex restroom. I made my way through the kitchen--deserted as it happened--and left through the back exit. In the humid, chilly stench of the dumpster area, I stood with pounding heart, wondering what had happened. I knew that I must document everything that happened that night...

Well, there you have it. Through some kind of mind control trickery, the owner was able to make me think the Tarnished Ladle was shining like gold. If I were to rate the illusion, I would give it five stars. But since I know now that what I took to be a polished ladle was nothing but a cruel illusion, I must give the Tarnished Ladle a disillusioned...zero cantaloupe bowls.

Restaurant Review: The Tarnished Ladle

2010-09-24T21:19:00.002-04:00

Although I was warned repeatedly by various folks not to even consider stepping into the Tarnished Ladle, I had lunch there yesterday afternoon. The Tarnished Ladle rests on a street among depressing furniture stores, cheerful mortuaries, and terrifying ice-cream parlors. The Tarnished Ladle's exterior is old brick and features an electric sign with an animated ladle swinging stutteringly from a 90 degree angle on the right to 180 degrees south and back again, with pulsing permutations in between. I stared at the ladle for a number of hours and then awoke with a start as several patrons brushed past me and through the glass door into the Ladle's lobby, a shoebox-shaped room, poorly ventilated. I remembered my friends' warnings about the eatery, but I decided that they were alarmists and that for the sake of my readership I would press on. I noted the sanitation rating--a disturbing D--and walked into the Ladle.

The host stood at a decrepit particle-board lectern. Dressed in a tattered suit of black crepe, he smiled like a wax figure at my arrival. I realized that this would be my last chance to leave the Ladle, but I know that you are counting on me to give you an honest and accurate review of the restaurants in the area...and you need me to eat even at the horrifying places.

The funereal old-fashioned soap opera sound of an electric organ throbbed as I followed the host into the dining room. The host found me a seat next to a niche in which stood a very creepy ceramic figurine of some 18th century French person.

"Could you do something about creepy doll?" I asked the host. He smiled and pulled down a convenient black shade that completely covered the niche. "Your server will be with you shortly," he said, and tiptoed away.

I rubbed my fingers over the stiffened, mildewed surface of the velvet tablecloth. Disgusting!

My server arrived.

"Evening, sir. I'm Oliver and I will be taking care of you today." As always, that phrase gave me the creeps. Why didn't I listen to my friends? Did I really owe it to my readers to dine in such a horrible eatery? I'd soon find out...

Oliver handed me a menu that looked like it had been rescued from a fire. As it crumbled, I searched it for the safest item available. "I'll have the broth," I ordered. "The clear broth. Just hot water," I said, adding a safe temperature to my order.

"And to drink?"

I requested the wine list and decided on a cobwebby Chardonnay.

The server stepped away. Someone was singing an aria, unaccompanied. The sound was coming from the wall. I put my ear against the shade covering the niche and the singing grew louder. The creepy figurine was singing!

I didn't dare raise the shade. My sanity could not abide the sight of a ceramic doll vocalizing. When my server reappeared with my glass of wine, I ordered him to somehow stop the figurine from its eerie crooning.

"It feeds on your annoyance, Sir," he said. "Just ignore it and it will fade away. I promise you."

To put the sound of the figurine's singing out of my mind, I concentrated on the taste of the wine. I put the smudged, chipped glass to my mouth and tasted something that I would happily splash on a salad. It was positively balsamic!

Thankfully, the figurine had stopped singing and I waited for my broth to arrive. The terrible sanitation rating was still worrying me, but I hoped that the boiled water would somehow be OK to imbibe. How wrong I was!

The broth was tepid and was served in a bowl on the bottom of which was still stuck a sticker stating "Not for Food Use." A bullion cube still in its wrapper floated among little surface-tension puddles of grease on the broth.

And for you, dear Reader, I drank a spoonful--one!--of this dreadful broth.

In a similar vein of self-sacrifice, I went on to order dessert--a Salted Ice Cube with Piece of String...yes, I ordered dessert and got a magic trick!

As I lifted the ice cube to my mouth with the string (attached to the cube by the encrusted salt) I thought of all that I have done for my readers over the years. Do they at all appreciate what I go through for them?

I popsicled the salty, frozen cube until all that was left was the string, which I laid carefully next to my soup spoon.

I hope that you will be good to me. After all I've done for you...! Eating at places like the Tarnished Ladle, an eatery that I give One Salted Ice Cube!

Restaurant Review: Diner's Remorse

2010-09-24T21:16:00.000-04:00

Tonight I ate at Diner's Remorse...and yes...I regret it. I ate something I shouldn't have...and now I'm paying the check.

What is it about the alluring menu at Diner's Remorse that makes the bitterest pile of ashes look like the sweetest dessert? Their menu designers are geniuses! Evil geniuses, but geniuses nonetheless. Because I ordered...and ordered...and now I am suffering the consequences.

I wish I could have back all the wasted time, money, and energy, that I spent tonight at Diner's Remorse. But I never will get them back. And now I am left alone in this bleak diner...contemplating the waste...the utter, irrevocable waste.

The waitron was so beguiling. "You have to try our three-tier cocoa salad torte." And like a fool, I ordered the torte. And now the flames of regret lick mockingly at my ankles.

Because the glamourous glossy photography of the menu was just an illusion...as the ashes of stark reality clump in my stomach, the realization hits me. I want my money back! I want my time back! I want my energy back!

The waitron cackles. All of those things I want back have been greedily absorbed into the infinite maw of Diner's Remorse...and here I sit, depleted.

There are no other diners. I am alone. I chased the illusion of the candied poppering pears...and now the walls of the pit rise around me.

Ah, yes, I am paying the piper now. A flickering black-and-white television braced against the wall is playing that old TV commercial: "I Can't Believe I Ate the Whole Thing." That is the only thing that TV ever plays in here.

I thought that the Artichoke Fries would make me happy.

They didn't.

And so...I signed away...everything! for what turns out to be a pile of charred charcoal. Or, in other words, charred coal or charcoal. I poke around in the ashes. I try to derive sustenance from the aroma of the smouldering embers. But there is no hope in that.

The waitron lied. It's that simple. The waitron told me that the Mint Gelatin Skins were Incredible. And I believed the waitron. And I know the waitron is laughing up its sleeves.

What is the decor like in this place? Bleak of course. Tired and wilted and clammy. The linens are clammy. I don't like this place. Fluorescent light like soiled laundry. The stainless steel is stained.

I'm going to leave soon.

And so, as I cover the remains of my meal with the funeral pall of my napkin, I can only warn you away from this place. But I know you will never believe me. You see only the sizzle...not the stake!

I would give this place zero stars if I could. But the code of the Restaurant Critic does not allow for that. Perhaps I will give it five stars...so that you will think the place overrated...and thus avoid it!

And so, consumed with remorse, I give Diner's Remorse five heaps of ashes.

Restaurant Review: Panica: The Anxiety-Attack Place

2010-08-19T19:18:00.002-04:00

So the other day I decided to have lunch at Panica, the Anxiety-Attack Place. It's a theme restaurant, and in this case the theme is panic attacks. Interesting, huh? You have to go to a place like Panica in the proper state of mind. I mean, you have to be feeling pretty vulnerable and washed-out and on the verge of a panic attack to even begin to appreciate this eatery. And so I waited till I was tipping over into an anxiety attack before I made my way to Panica.

The exterior of the place is meant to induce panic in you from the beginning. If you're looking for a cozy place to dine, Panica is not it. The entrance is imposing and brutal, with gigantic oppressive columns and a blunt stairway. The heart starts rabbiting from the moment you view the building.

Inside, everything is conceived to make you jittery. The music is terrible synthesizer-based "new wave" music from the last century. The treble is turned way up and everything sounds tinny and distorted. The music has that annoying "energetic" sound that I despise. I wanted to find the nearest exit, but I had to dine there...so you wouldn't have to. Unless, of course, you're looking for an anxiety-attack theme restaurant, which, judging by how crowded the dining room was (of course!), many others apparently are.

The host at his lectern was commited to making you feel nervous. In a fascinating twist, the host was not high-strung and impatient. In fact, his ability to give you a case of the nerves was based on how plodding, molasses slow he was in everything he said and did. In fact, he didn't even acknowledge me for around one to two hours. I stood in the lobby of Panica, feeling more and more clammy by the minute, pummeled by the awful keyboards and drum machines and hyperactive vocals. I walked over to him after the second hour and asked for a table. "I'm sorry, but...well, let me go in the back and see if anything's available." He worked kinks out of his neck as he loped back to the kitchen.

Another hour passed. A trap-door of panic opened up. And somehow I suppose the host was able to detect that, because he re-appeared at the moment my anxiety attack was revving up.

"This way, sir," he said. I followed him through the press of a dazed, stupefied crowd. My table was full of stains and made me fear some food-borne illness would waft up into my system from its surface. I asked him to clean the table, but somehow the anxiety had lowered the volume and projection of my voice until it became so weak that the host could not hear me. "Your server will be back later tonight. Give him at least three or four hours."

When the server finally arrived, I was wringing my hands, passing my hand across my brow, and unconsciously tearing the cloth napkins into shreds. Fears of imminent madness or sudden death pierced my mind. The waiter arrived.

"Would you like a large coffee with a shot of adrenaline?" the server asked.

The waitron left for the coffee and I perused the menu. The print was extremely small, and it was difficult to read with the hysterical eyestrain I was presently suffering from. The descriptions of the dishes made no sense and confused me. Try as I might, the words wouldn't connect. When the server returned, around an hour later, I was weak with hunger and anxiety.

"Anything look good?" the server said.

"What would you suggest?" I asked. Again, my voice was extremely weak and the waitron couldn't hear me. I raised my voice...which took great effort. "What's good?"

The server said, "You'll love the bottomless bowl of creamed corn."

Bottomless. As in...bottomless pit. The panic escalated when I heard the word bottomless and thought of what it meant...THE ABYSS.

The creamed corn was flavorful, not too salty or runny, and had some exceedingly large kernels, which I thought was a generous touch on the part of the chef. I usually enjoy my creamed corn hot instead of tepid, but otherwise the dish was excellent.

The panic subsiding, I asked for the dessert menu. "Ah," said the waitron, "you've ridden out another panic attack! Now you get your prize!"

The Panic-Lover's Blondie was crisp and tangy. By the time I finished it, the anxiety attack had been replaced by a feeling of calm and relief...just the sort of mood to accompany an excellent fried dessert.

Overall, Panica delivers what it promises--adventurous cuisine in a nerve-shattering ambience. If you like a little anxiety with your creamed corn, Panica is the place for you. And so, I hyperventilatingly award Panica Five Brown Paper Bags!

Restaurant Review: The Game Show Diner

2010-07-25T20:57:00.004-04:00

As theme restaurants go, The Game Show Diner is one of my all-time favorites. Imagine...a 1970's game show set. The marquee bulbs. The 1974 colors. The sparkly sculptures, smooth abstract shapes. Yes--that's the decor of the Game Show Diner. What could be better?

The other day, I had lunch at the Game Show Diner, and I was impressed--as usual. The host, of course, is dressed like a host. A game show host, that is, one from the early seventies. (Early? Mid? Is 1974 mid? How does that work?) Anyway, walk up to the host lectern and see a man in a crazy, wide-lapel suit covered in criss-crosses. The tie is gigantic, as large as a human being made of cloth. The hairstyle is longish--how strange the way hair has changed since then...much more restrained.

When you walk into the Game Show Diner, you immediately hear the theme song. It's maddeningly repetitive. You hear the wah-wah, the ostinato, the brass section. The host says, "What do you do for a living? Tell us a little bit about...you!" and extends the magic-wand like Bob Barker microphone to you.

The host brings you to your seat...a game-show-contestant desk...your name appears on a light panel in front of the desk, and lights up as you approach. You sit down and the host says, "Your celebrity will be right with you. Good luck."

Normally, if your host told you "good luck" at a restaurant you'd be terrified, but it's the Game Show Diner, so you understand.

A moment later, your celebrity indeed is with you.

Now if you'll recall, the celebrities on game shows in the 1970's were allowed to dress down, a little more loose and with-it than the hosts, and so you're not surprised to see your celebrity wearing a sport coat. The host comes back and stands at the celebrity's side.

"Name a beverage," your host states.

"Uh," you rack your brain, looking for a beverage to match the one in your server's mind. "I'd like a glass of wine..."

The server turns his pad around--on it is written: Wine. The happy theme song starts playing. The horns, the wah-wah. "Great!" the host states. "Just fantastic."

"OK, next..." the host says. "Name an entree."

Again, it takes a bit of ESP to win this game...What is your server thinking?

"Chicken a la King!" you shout. The server turns around his pad. "Corn Dogs Florentine."

A horrible buzzer grates in your ears. The host says, "Aw whoa! So close! Wow! Sorry!"

Unfortunately, you don't get another choice, so there's no entree for you tonight. Next you need to guess the dessert the server is thinking of.

"Apple pie," you say.

The server flips his pad and you see he's written "Melted Milk Balls with Lettuce Wedge."

The buzzer again. Audience sounds of disappointment with a little booing.

The host says, "So sorry, my friend. But you do have that fantastic glass of Boone's Farm!"

"That's fine, that's OK," you assure the host. "I didn't come here with any food, and I won't leave here with any food."

Which other eatery gives you this kind of suspense and excitement? And so I am happy to award the wonderful game show diner a full Five Consolation Prizes!

Drawings at Baja Burrito

2010-07-18T17:40:00.004-04:00

You can see six drawings by me at Baja Burrito in Mission Valley

Restaurant Review: Fishsticks-on-a-Stick Au Go-Go

2010-07-14T19:55:00.001-04:00

Today I did something I had never done before in my career as a food critic. Today I walked out of a restaurant before I ordered.

Walking out before you order violates the food critic's code, I know. How can I possibly review an eatery if I haven't tasted the food? But today I walked out of Fishsticks-on-a-Stick Au Go-Go.

First let me state that the decor at Fishsticks is marvelous. You really do feel like you're in a swinging discotheque that happens to serve fishsticks. If fishsticks had been provided on Sunset Strip in the late 1960's, maybe things would have turned out differently for the counter culture.

That being said, the decor is no excuse for what I found there. Go-go cages with animatronics robots can't cancel out what's deeply wrong with Fishsticks. In all good conscience, I had to walk out. And it wasn't just my conscience bothering me--the whole concept of Fishsticks made me want to crawl under a rock in embarrassment.

The reason I walked out before I ordered anything from this living exercise in nostalgia and seafood is that I literally couldn't order anything from their menu without turning red in the face.

You see, Fishsticks is one of those places that thinks it's cute to give their menu items names that you couldn't possibly order without cringing and wanting the earth to swallow you up.

It's one thing for International House of Pancakes to offer something called Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity. I would be physically incapable of speaking that phrase aloud. I can barely write it. But it's just one item on the menu, and I suppose one could always abbreviate it to Fresh and Fruity. Or point.

And it's another thing for bars to offer drinks with suggestive names. That seems appropriate in a bar atmosphere.

But it's something else for a restaurant to only offer menu items that have names no one could possibly ever want to speak. And offer those of us with shame no alternatives.

Again and again, I searched the menu in vain for something I could say aloud. Why on earth would they call the Caesar Salad-flavored fishstick "I Have Weird Thoughts about Mucilage"? Giving a name like that to a salad shows nothing but a kind of snickering contempt for the patron. And why take an open-faced beef sandwich-flavored fishstick and call it a "Simply Super Idea"? And is it really necessary to call a radish-flavored fishstick "The Wink Factory"?

I will say the waitrons were incredible, bearing up under the burden of hearing patrons jump through the degrading hoops the restaurant chain has set up for them. But the courage and determination of the waitrons, just like the clever decor, was not enough to keep me in my seat once I'd seen the eatery's abysmal menu.

I hope that the Fishsticks corporation will rethink this naming strategy. Are you really trying to humiliate us? Why else give your food, which one would hope you are proud of and which some day, if you drop this silliness, I may indeed taste, these ridiculous, anti-human names?

And so, sadly, I give Fishsticks-on-a-Stick Au Go-Go a mortified Zero Stars.

Restaurant Review: Insomnia Waffles

2010-07-03T01:43:00.001-04:00

When it's late at night..after midnight..and you can't sleep for whatever reason - whether you're worried sick about some loss you fear is impending or else annoyed by some noisy person downstairs - well, you might want to go over to Insomnia Waffles to while the time away till dawn. It's past one am and I can't sleep so here I am at Insomnia. I've set up my laptop on the counter here so I can transmit my wi-fi review to you live from the waffle shop. So with my waffle wi-fi working, I send you my thoughts about Insomnia Waffles, my favorite waffle shop in town. First off, let me say that Insomnia Waffles is the non-scary version of an all-nite waffle place. I really dig and appreciate and admire any place that is the non-scary version of something that people usually think of as scary and to-be-avoided. So for somebody to take the waffle shop concept and transmute it into a diner-friendly place is almost miraculous to my eye.

Insomnia is also great because it doesn't try to help you sleep. I think that a restaurant that tried to put you to sleep wouldn't actually be worth much. If you walked in here and they were playing lullabies over the sound system and serving you glasses of warm milk--well, that might put you to sleep but what would you do then? Spend the night in a waffle shop? I think not.

So Insomnia Waffles does the best thing, the best response to insomnia, it just doesn't acknowledge it or try to treat it. Insomnia Waffles tells you--ok, you can't sleep, let's just make the best of it. So they do serve coffee. They don't serve warm milk. And, of course, gloriously, they do serve waffles.

In keeping with the non-scary mode, this is a waffle place that actually has more the ambiance of a coffee shop, complete with mood lighting and great background music--right now they're playing Manhattan Transfer's "Spies in the Night." It's the cool phone-call part right now--"The winds are calm in the channel" and so forth. So while this driving tune plays, I'm sitting here looking over the non-laminated menu.

Laminated menu's. Don't they kind of scare you? Because really they're made for easy clean-up, which is always the sign of some creepy institutional ware. I mean, why on earth would you need to clean a menu with a sponge? It's too disgusting to think about.

But Insomnia Waffles, of course, has no laminated menu's. (I've already noted elsewhere that I realize there is no apostrophe in menus but I think it looks goofy without it so I use it anyway. Critic's prerogative.) The menu's are on a nicely browned parchment with cool early-70's inspirational-pamphlet calligraphy and ink-brush drawings of egrets. That's the kind of menu I like. So you can see it's just one more way that Insomnia Waffles departs from the scary waffle shop concept.

Now there are many choices with a waffle. You can have a round waffle. A square waffle. A triangular waffle. I'm particularly fond of the rhomboid waffle. And once you've chosen the shape, next on the decision agenda is how large the indentions or "wafflings" should be. Now, I'm not a fan of those waffles with only one or two gigantic indentations. I like the standard waffle grid or checkerboard pattern, though I know some disagree.

OK. My server has just appeared (I mean that literally--one minute they're not there and then they suddenly materialize). I will stop typing for a moment then report back.

OK. I just ordered the Powerhouse Waffle. This is one of those menu items that gains you a special engraving on a plaque if you eat it. Normally I don't go in for such sensationalistic food stunts, but in this case--well, it's a waffle! What do you expect me to do?!

Of course I'm also having the coffee. Coffee and waffles. That's what Jarmusch should have called that movie. It would have been an infinitely better film had it been about coffee and waffles rather than coffee and cigarettes. I mean, really. And the checkerboard table would have gone so much better with checkerboard waffles than with cylindrical cigarettes. I mean, it isn't that hard of a decision, people! And I'm a food critic not some famous motion-picture director!

Let me say something about syrup. Now I have been accused by various persons of drenching my waffles in syrup. Well, as a diner, I fully indulge my instincts, and I have a strong instinct for hot, sweet syrup, and I indulge that to the fullest! I also put a couple butter pats on each waffle before I ladle the hot honey-like syrup on. I like butter pats that have little images carved onto them (I don't know if carved is the right word exactly--I'm a food critic, not some self-conscious pedant! Who cares!). I like famous faces on my butter pats. Especially cartoon characters from the 1930s. And that's exactly what Insomnia Waffles does--they have people (characters) like Mutt and Jeff molded into their butter discs. Isn't that phenomenal? You can watch Mutt's face interestingly morph under the cascade of ladled hot syrup. Delish!

The coffee at Insomnia Waffles is incredible. It isn't typical waffle coffee. It's really great cafe coffee. So again it's the non-scary version of a waffle shop and that's why I keep coming back here! Again and again. Especially when I can't sleep (which is probably the point). Like tonight.

The service is serviceable. Nobody has ever disappointed me here. And what's especially appreciated is--the waitrons don't try to make you go to sleep! Wouldn't it be annoying if your server kept saying, "You look exhausted. Time to hit the hay!" I mean, I would not want to be served by that person.

Overall, then, Insomnia Waffles is the perfect spot to dine at when sleep is elusive. You can use the wi-fi and enjoy the waff-fi, as you sip the rich roast. The roast has an incredible gravy! The coffee is good too.

And so, although I wish I could sleep, although I wish I didn't worry so much which keeps me from sleeping and sends me off to Insomnia Waffles in the middle of the night--I still enthusastically--in a sleepy nocturnal way--award Insomnia Waffles Five Winks!

2010-06-29T22:37:00.000-04:00

Food Criticism: Oulipo's Snack Bar

2010-06-22T20:41:00.000-04:00

Today I had lunch at Oulipo's snack bar. A fabulous location, fantastic waitrons, astounding food--that's why I'm mad about Oulipo's!

Oulipo's surroundings? Simply amazing. Brilliant wall art (mostly oil paintings) charms you. Catchy music (classic rock hits mostly--Styx, Pink Floyd, Boston, and so on) wows. Waitrons and patrons? All cool folks.

I sit down in a comfy booth. My waitron displays Oulipo's voluminous food list. What looks good? All of it! In a quandary, I finally pick Oulipo's Lipogram Crust with squash filling. And to drink? Glug a mug of Squirt, straight up. Cool!

An Oulipo waitron is not your typical waitron. Quick, watchful, mindful, thoughtful--all you want in a waitron! My tip is always grand--not A grand, mind you, but grand. My waitron fills and fills again my Squirt mug without fail. And without my having to flap my hands! Oulipo uniforms? Stunning. Classic, classy, chic duds--not clinging or form-fitting but not baggy. Just right.

My Lipogram Crust is also just right. Crunchy and savory, this crust falls apart in your mouth. What bliss!

And so, looking back fondly, I found Oulipo's--as always--an out-of-sight dining spot. Oulipo's looks good. Oulipo's waitrons show us what waiting is all about. And Oulipo's food? Astronomically outstanding!

That's why I am awarding Oulipo's Snack Bar an avid four stars. No... I award Oulipo's Six Stars!

Robert Duncan on "mission"

2010-06-18T23:43:00.000-04:00

Restaurant Review: Waba

2010-06-13T09:42:00.000-04:00

The other day I had lunch with Jacques Wool at Waba, a restaurant I highly recommend. Let's start with the menu. I like the menu there because although I had been to Waba a few times before, I have no idea what most of the dishes are. So I appreciate the menus, which are presented flat on the counter for easy perusal. You don't have to crane your neck gawking at a menu board full of items you don't understand. You can stand relaxedly at the counter and look down at the menu. And the menu has photographs of the dishes. This is helpful for those who don't have an encyclopedic knowledge of Korean cuisine, and I count myself among that group. Also helpful are the little hot-pepper icons. Whoever started this hot-pepper icon craze was a genius. As you know, I love hot, spicy food (when it's flavorful heat, not just some chemical burn). I want the hottest thing on the menu, sir! And I can find that hottest item by looking for the hot-pepper icon. And Waba uses this fantastic feature on their menu. They even have double hot-peppers! Of course, my eye was immediately magnetized to those items. And I zeroed in on the Dduk Bok Ki. Now, though I am multi-lingual (to say the least, though my Guugu Yimidhirr is a bit shaky), I haven't the least idea how to pronounce "Dduk Bok Ki." I just can't do it. I could try to fake it, but that would be ridiculous, I would end up just embarrassing myself and others. So I love the menu at Waba because you can just point to things. But I truly want to learn, and so I just come out and say it: "How do you pronounce that?" And the person at the counter will pronounce it for you. Isn't that great? Now I have a pretty good idea how to pronounce Dduk Bok Ki. And I feel better about everything as a result. So I'm standing up there pointing and asking, and I realize that I'm not just ordering food, but I'm learning. I am a lifelong learner, as all food critics (or any critics, really) must be.

Jacques Wool ordered the Mandu. These are dumplings or pot-stickers. Whoever came up with the name Pot Sticker? It's mildly embarrassing. I mean, what is that supposed to mean? They stick to the pot? The pot hasn't been sufficiently greased and therefore things are sticking to it? That's like calling an omelet a pan-sticker. Nobody would ever call it that. It's a chummy, overly familiar and faintly disrespectful way to speak of a dish. And that dish looked good! I was covetously eying Jacques' Mandu the entire time, hoping for some kind of diversion to happen out on Hillsborough Street (great new modernistic aluminum fixtures, by the way!) so I could reach out and take one...with my fork!

OK, here's the next thing about Waba. They offer you forks or chopsticks. This is a controversial topic. I know people who think it's unbelievably gauche to eat with a fork in a place that offers chopsticks. Well, let me tell you--there are things that I like to do with my food when I'm eating it that I don't know how to do with chopsticks. I like to move my food around, let it drag through the hot sauce, swirl it...things I don't think I can do with chopsticks. Anyway, I guess I just like the pure sensation of spearing my food, instead of just gently cradling it between two distancing pieces of wood. Call me a vulgarian! But it isn't because I can't use them. No, I've been trained in their use. I know how to do it. And I have eaten with them plenty of times. Anyway, Waba gives you that choice, and I'm grateful for it.

Well, the Dduk Bok Ki was fabulous. I loved the hot sauce, it definitely merited two hot (hott?) peppers. The fish,sliced into thin strips, was very tasty. The rice dumplings held my attention throughout the meal, and chewing them added suspense to the conversation as Jacques waited for my responses.

Overall, Waba is a reliable, enjoyable dining experience. I'm looking forward to trying every single item on their horizontal menu. It's a great place to meet and hold an intelligent conversation--something about the airiness and calm atmosphere seems to lend itself to this. And so I enthusiastically award Waba a full FIVE DUMPLINGS!

The entire concept of "the nice guy syndrome" will soon be obsolete

2010-06-11T20:31:00.003-04:00

If you came to this blog by searching "nice guy syndrome," you should probably read the following article from Atlantic monthly:

The End of Men"

If this article is correct, if you succeed in "overcoming nice guy syndrome," you may be making yourself unfit to compete in the postindustrial labor market!

The Hollies: Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress

2010-06-03T22:56:00.000-04:00

I like the Hollies' "Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress" better than anything that's actually by CCR.

Restaurant Review: Zoë's Kitchen

2010-06-01T23:26:00.000-04:00

This afternoon, Jacques Wool and I had lunch at the wonderful Zoë's Kitchen. Located in the Shops at Oberlin Court, a center full of interesting places underneath apartments, Zoë's is an awesome dining experience. Jacques pulled into the ample parking lot and we walked over to the restaurant. When we stepped inside, I became disoriented--which is no fault of the restaurant, I was merely preoccupied with some thought I was exploring and expressing. What else is new. I think I was looking for a hostess station, but Jacques gently guided me to the front counter. There is no hostess station. For ZK is a fast casual restaurant, and you needn't worry about a hostess when it's fast casual. I don't know if I've told you this before, but I love fast casual. To me, it's the best of both worlds. It has that relaxed fast food or quick serve feeling, but with the quality food of a sit-down restaurant...along with all the ambiance. We walked up to face the menu board. I could tell immediately that the eatery had on offer the types of items that I am currently looking for in my quest for better eating habits. I will not sacrifice flavor, however, and there's no need to at Zoë's place.

Let me tell you about the interior. Have you ever been to a library built in the 1970's? Have you ever been in a school built in the 1970's when the "open classroom" model was in vogue? Well, then you have a pretty good idea of what ZK looks like, because it's fabulous. The restaurant has these terrific 1970's colors. I mean, I'm talking seventies orange. Colors like that. And it also features a charming "high-tech" look. You know I love the exposed pipes of "high tech" and ZK has them to spare. And these pipes are huge! It's delightful to dine while glancing up at these giant orange pipes. I mean, from a design point of view it's matchless. It's like eating in some great university student center, or a restaurant in a really with-it art museum. I love it!

Speaking of art, ZK does feature some brilliant art. What they have is some astounding naive art lining the walls--with sophisticated portraits above the naive art. What a mixture! I immediately wanted to find out how to offer my drawings to be displayed there. You know you're in a good restaurant when you wish your art were hanging there. I mean, seriously.

OK, here's their system. Once you've ordered from the friendly, helpful cashier, they hand you one of those tiny flagpoles with your order number on it. And listen to this--Jacques and I ordered separately and yet we got the same flag! Isn't that efficient? We walked over next to the drink station. You won't believe this, but they actually have Coke Zero on tap there. I mean, I have never EVER seen a drink station where they had Coke Zero. I mean, they always have Diet Coke but never the Zero. Coke Zero is mystifyingly great to me--I mean, it tastes EXACTLY LIKE COKE. I don't know how they do it. I mean, there is no other diet item on the planet Earth that somehow replicates in perfect measure the thing it's meant to calorie-lessly clone. I mean, I can't think of anything--can you? Coke Zero? I think they ought to call it Coke Everything! Because it's even better than Coca-Cola. Because it has no calories, no caffeine I don't think. I mean it has nothing but flavor. And they have it there! They also have three urns of iced tea.

I really chuckled when I saw the sign stuck magnetically to the sweet tea urn. "Sweet Tea served with Southern Hospitality." Isn't that great? Because it's self-serve, which means ZK is such a tremendous place even when you're serving yourself it's in a gracious style full of southern hospitality. I mean, eateries don't get better than that!

So Jacques grabbed an iced tea and I my Coke Zero and we sat down--among the many choices--at a table near the window but not too close that the hot sun would bother us. In a few moments, a server brought my salad. Now, pay attention here, because it's fast casual--but with table service!! Isn't that great? This is part of what I mean by the best of both worlds. Now, remember, it isn't fast food--far from it. Which means, you have to wait a little longer than you do in some place where they're just grabbing a burger from a heated chute for you. Since Jacques didn't have a side salad with his entree--I believe he had the Mediterranean Tuna Pita, though I'm not sure because I was so caught up in my meal, which I will be describing for you--he graciously suggested that I tuck into my side salad. It was great! I can still taste the olives. And the pita. And the red onions. It was just right, and then we were served our main meals.

I made a great decision, because I ordered the Veggie Pita Pizza. This was astonishingly good. The spinach was full of flavor, and the pizza had just enough tomato sauce. The pizza had a nearly-stuffed quality while retaining a crispy crunchy crust, really terrific. I enjoyed it a great deal. I enjoyed it immensely. And I can't wait to go back there.

In fact, I haven't been this enthusiastic about a dining establishment in a long time. The menu seemed to offer so many healthful, flavor-filled favorites that I think I'd like to eat there every single day until eternity, sampling one dish after another.

Remembering that he had left his Panama Hat at Fosters at our last luncheon meeting, Jacques wisely brought a less costly chapeau with him to Zoë's Kitchen. But the service is so great there, I assume that if he had forgotten this hat as well, the servers would have made sure to secure it until it could be safely retrieved.

Again, the service was amazing. Table service! As we ate, a server came and took our plates out of the way. I love that in a fast casual restaurant. It really helps out the conversation when you aren't distracted by plates you've eaten from. Take them away! And they did--without our asking.

It was very easy to hold a conversation in ZK. I mean, it wasn't noisy, I don't even recall if there was music playing or not--always a good sign. I mean, I think there might have been, but I can't attest to it. Which means it probably was, but wasn't in the least bit distracting.

I really regret not having ordered dessert. The entrees were so good that I truly believe that the desserts are probably fantastic there, and I know that the next time I'm there I'm going to order a dessert.

I also want to mention the wondrous Greek salad dressing--a wine vinaigrette--that awaits you on each table. Isn't that amazing--they already put out the salad dressing for you, and it's a great signature dressing--it had a faint taste of mango, but I don't really know what they put in it aside from awesome. I poured it on my side salad and was very pleased with the result.

I have seen the future of the restaurant industry, and its name is Zoë's Kitchen! Go there--try it--you will thank yourself later--actually, you will thank ME, since I'm the one who suggested it. I give it an enthusiastic FIVE OLIVES!!!!!

"Moving from Cheer to Joy, from Joy to All"--Huh?: Inaccuracy in Randall Jarrell's "Next Day."

2010-06-01T10:59:00.001-04:00

Since Joy is a dishwashing liquid and Cheer and All are laundry detergents, how does the speaker in Randall Jarrell's "Next Day" " [move] from Cheer to Joy, from Joy to All"? Is the dishwashing liquid in the supermarket stocked between brands of laundry detergent? Is the heavy-handed irony more important than accuracy?

The Law of Tension and Release in Art as Illustrated in "Boat of Car" by They Might be Giants

2010-05-28T05:19:00.004-04:00

Reducing art to one element or principle is counter-productive and reductive always, but there are laws and principles that govern art. One of the most important principles is that of "tension and release." Though the Law of Tension and Release applies to all art forms, including poetry, the term is most often applied to music.

When applied to music, "tension and release" often refers to tonic resolution, but even in the realm of music I am not applying it in this narrower sense. Tension and Release is a much broader law or principle.

Here is a piece of music that illustrates the Law of Tension and Release. It is the piece "Boat of Car" by They Might be Giants. (I am using this demo version because I could find no other version on Youtube.) As you listen, consider how tension and release works in this piece.

I chose this example because it so clearly illustrates this law. The very structure of the recording is based on this law. The recording is divided between tension and release very cleanly--the law is rarely illustrated or demonstrated so simply.

Unbearable tension exists throughout the piece until 0:58 when the Release occurs. You may want to listen to the recording several times to get the full effect, though this re-listening will probably not be necessary.

Again, reducing art to one law or principle is unhelpful, but it does help to look at these principles. The principles apply to every art form, including poetry. Poetry follows all the laws of art--one law is not more important than another.

Entree Review: The steak-fried Chicken Steak-Fried Chicken XL at Wag Nabbit's

2010-05-21T20:43:00.000-04:00

If as Ernest Hemingway once averred, morality is what you feel good after and immorality is what you feel bad after, then the steak-fried Chicken Steak-Fried Chicken XL at Wag Nabbit's is immoral--because after eating this entree I felt very bad indeed. The thing is still squatting in my guts like a granite curling stone. And I still can't tell you whether it was beef or chicken. The title completely disoriented me. I think it's a steak-fried chicken-steak, or a chicken-fried steak-fried steak-chicken, but I can't tell you. All I know about this aporia on a platter is that I'm still suffering from ingesting it. When I close my eyes I see it spinning eternally on some weird potter's wheel.

Wag Nabbit's is one of those plastic, Stepford Dives-type places that have absolutely no character. I guess they tried to lend the place some character by making a dish that was completely inedible. Well, if that's their idea of character, then I'll take bland soullessness, because I don't like to feel the way I'm feeling right now.

I don't suppose you know what it's like to have this kind of meal taking up residence in your stomach. No, you don't have to eat at places like Wag Nabbit's--because you aren't a food critic! There. I've said it. Because you're not a food critic, you get to choose the places you want to eat it. You don't have to go somewhere because it's on your list of places you haven't reviewed yet. Oh, no, you've got it easy. You can eat at the same place every single day of the week if you want. Imagine if I did that. I mean, really. Imagine it. Close your eyes and in as much sensory detail as you can, picture and imagine me, your food critic, eating at the same restaurant every day for a single week. I mean, picture me wearing different outfits, and visiting the restaurant under varied weather conditions. Are you picturing it? Are you smelling the smells, hearing the background music? Well, that will never happen. Push that vision away! That's right, erase it, because I have to eat somewhere different on a daily basis. Because if I turned in the same review seven times in a row, even if it was different each time, why my public would be outraged! They would turn into the torch-and-pitchfork mob that hunted Frankenstein's monster. I'm serious (I always am).

If this is a rant, so be it. Wag Nabbit's, or Dag Dabbit's, or Wascally Wabbit, or whatever the heck it's called, it just isn't the kind of place I would ever set foot in were I not a food critic. I mean, you may not believe this, but at one time I was a very cool and with-it individual. My favorite Velvet Underground LP was the Couch Album, for goodness' sake. And now here I am eating some darn chicken-fried steak-chicken-fried steak steak thing at Dang Dabbit's suburban hellhole. You like I like this place? You think I like the music they play in here? This isn't music, I know what music is. This is the kind of music they play as soundtrack to the horrifying rituals of the spiritually embalmed.

I'm not sure how long I can continue to review places like this. I mean, do people who dine at Dab Diggety or whatever even read my reviews? They just eat there because it's attached to the mall, don't they? I mean, if they'd made a left turn they'd be at Dippin Dots instead, wouldn't they?

OK. I've vented. I feel better. The indigestion is settling. I'm going to finish my review and take a nap. The Steak-Fried Chicken XL wasn't really all that bad. Not really. I give up. I give it five stars...

Restaurant Review: Flannel's Cafe'

2010-05-14T21:11:00.003-04:00

According to a recent New York Times article, "Gen X [is Having] a Midlife Crisis". Well, you wouldn't know it at Flannel's Cafe', because in this midtown eatery, Generation X it still in its grungy, nihilistic, slacker prime.

Yes, it was inevitable. If most theme restaurants have a sixties/seventies ambiance, why not a theme restaurant for the "Nevermind" generation? Yes, I know "why not"--but let that pass, because Flannel's Cafe' is where X marks the spot for flavor.

I like Flannel's because it just has that friendly, unassuming vibe that we associate with the post-boomer generation. Walk in and be pummeled by the music to dine by: Nirvana's "Scentless Apprentice" from a Peavey amp suspended above the hostess station.

Do you remember all those articles in Time magazine in the 1990's about how Gen X types were sullen wage slaves? Well, the help here at Flannel's lives up to that stereotype, but in an amusing, ironic (of course) way. So it isn't offensive at all. In fact, it's kind of sweet, bathing you in nostalgia for a time when people were deeply shocked to see a cash-register operator wearing a nose ring.

The bare bones atmosphere of Flannel's won't win any interior design awards. Exposed beams and wiring, with glaring lamps (and blaring amps) and uncomfortable seating, drop you down a time warp into the psychological darkness of the grunge decade.

As befitting a "Hard Rock Cafe" knockoff, Flannel's features goofy rock star memorabilia on the walls, items such as Kurt Cobain's death certificate that couldn't be more obvious and unimaginative.

As for the food, it's excellent, and I think if Flannel's dropped the 1990's nostalgia trappings, they might have a decent little "hole"-in-the-wall. I had the orange roughy with a lime smoothie, because I believe in taking the roughy with the smoothie.

Overall, I had a wonderful experience at Flannel's. This trip down memory lane made me pine for the days of that surprisingly light-hearted decade. If you're looking for a similar experience, be sure to pop into Flannel's Cafe'. I'm happy to give Flannel's Cafe' Five Smoothies!

Restaurant Review: Fosters American Grille

2010-05-07T22:53:00.001-04:00

As I was walking through the parking lot, my cell phone vibrated. A message from Jacques Wool. He'd left behind his panama hat--would I go back and retrieve it from the restaurant? But of course! As I walked back to Fosters, I pictured going back to the table and grabbing the hat from the chair Jacques had sat in. I stepped back into Fosters. I was about to tell the friendly and helpful hostess that I had returned to pick up my friend's hat, but before the words escaped my lips I saw that Jacques' panama hat had been thoughtfully placed on one of the stands in the entry.

That impressed me. Then again, a number of things impressed me about the restaurant. I liked the bright, airy dining room. The decor was appealing--I enjoyed the amber spheres enclosed in wrought iron bands that hung from the ceiling. A pleasant, talkative din filled the dining room, though Jacques did mention a more sound-absorbing floor material would help us hear each other--then again, you may not be as soft-spoken as Jacques and I. I didn't notice any music playing, if there was any, and there certainly was not a television in sight. Fosters would be an ideal place to discuss Wallace Stevens...and his world.

The server was great--attentive but not intrusive. My iced tea glass kept being refilled as though by magic! And that's the way it ought to be. The menu featured a great range of items at different price points, all the way from BBQ pizza to scallops. Jacques enjoyed his Buffalo Shrimp Po Boy. I couldn't resist snapping up one of his French Fried Potatoes sprinkled with sea salt--excellent! I like my French Fries to taste like...potatoes, for that's what they are.

I had the fantastic Four Cheese Pesto pizza. The crust was just crunchy enough and the Feta cheese was terrific. I think next time I'll ask for extra cilantro--though I understand why they may have gone easy on it--cilantro does have a way of taking over a pizza...though I like it when that happens.

I absolutely will be going back to this restaurant. I like how a menu with more reasonable prices exists in a restaurant with such a pleasant atmosphere and outstanding food. And so, I am happy to report that I give Fosters--five cilantro leaves!

Memories of Recorded Poetry

2010-05-04T22:42:00.003-04:00

I flipped through the vinyl albums at the library,
the sleeves in plastic covers.
I often checked out records from the library, many of
my favorite albums I first encountered by checking them out
from a public library. This Year's Model, Pure Pop
for Now People, More Songs about Buildings and Food,
Surrealistic Pillow, Bringing it All Back Home, I heard all these
the first time because libraries offered vinyl albums to borrow.
I also borrowed comedy albums, this was how I first heard
the Firesign Theatre's Giant Rat of Sumatra album, also
Proctor and Bergman's TV or not TV. I could name other music or comedy LPs
that I checked out, but I'm thinking now of the albums of spoken poetry,
the label Caedmon, I remember they came in volumes, a series,
the covers were earth tones or mustard, I seem to remember a drawing of
sheaves of wheat. The were compilation albums, different poets.
I probably checked them out methodically,
and listened to them one by one in order, though I don't really remember
doing that. But I remember listening to them, hearing them.
I played them on the record player my parents got me from Sears
when I was around eleven years old and started buying records
on a regular basis. I was surprised, maybe disappointed, to hear
how Robert Bly sounded. To my mind, at age 16, his voice didn't sound
what I thought a poet would sound like. What was I expecting?
Also, hearing John Ashbery for the first time--he was another one
who didn't sound poetical or something to me. Not that I was reading
tons of either poet, just things I saw in anthologies, my beloved
blue Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry edited by Richard Ellmann,
and Donald Hall's Contemporary penguin anthology, along with Mark Strand's
paperback anthology. Donald Hall's was in that Penguin poetry series
with the great geometric designs, like cool wallpaper. I should start
collecting those, I almost was for a while, I remember especially the Shelley
paperback, with those red figures. I wasn't disappointed
to hear Allen Ginsberg read "Who Be Kind to," I loved that one,
listened to it over and over. I'd already heard him read, I think,
unless I'm getting the chronology mixed up,
on the Clash's "Combat Rock" LP, he read along with the Clash
on the track "Ghetto Defendant." I probably heard the Caedmon LP first.
I still like that Ginsberg poem ("Who Be Kind to") a lot. I was really fascinated
with Sylvia Plath's readings, though. I remember telling someone--maybe it was
the professor whose office I stood in reminiscing about these Caedmon albums,
or it could have been someone else--how I found Plath's voice on these recordings
to be both scary and comforting, at the same time. I loved hearing her read
"Stopped Dead" especially, and "The Applicant," I remember thinking those
were especially creepy and compelling. I checked books out of the library, too,
of course, and one of my favorites was Plath's Winter Trees, I loved the black and white silvery cover with the dead trees on it, and the endpapers were this funereal lavender, and the poems themselves had this imagery that really connected with
the images I found floating through my head already, charged with morbid emotions
and sweeter ones too, all mixed together, a summery dawn feeling involved also
with adolescent feelings about cemeteries and what they're for. Another poet
I loved hearing was e.e. cummings, he sounded very high-class to me, and read so
slowly. Of course, one thing led to another and I started reading more and more poetry and listening to more and more recorded poetry. What really stands out, though, is when I was going through some emotional distress a few years later I lay in bed under the covers with the lights off listening to a cassette tape that I'd made of Louis Simpson reading his poetry. Somehow the fact that he'd said he'd written poetry after having had a nervous breakdown and couldn't write prose made me believe that he had somehow recorded these poems while he was recovering from that breakdown, that he was still feeling the effects of this experience, and something about his sensitive, sardonic voice made me feel that this was the case, and so it was comforting to listen to him read...

Special Report: The Ivory Satin Cake at Sleepy Chapel Sandwich Shoppe

2010-05-03T21:27:00.004-04:00

I had a very disturbing and upsetting experience the other week at Sleepy Chapel Sandwich Shoppe, an experience I must share with you. As you know, for me, the Sleepy Chapel is already a place that carries an atmosphere of anxiety, so having this event occur there merely doubles how much of an ordeal this experience was for me.

After my typical Sleepy Sandwich meal, the Calamari Po Boy, I decided to throw caution to the winds and order dessert. The dessert itself was fabulous, but I rue the day that I ever ordered the Ivory Satin Cake, because doing so flung me into an entangling Kafkaesque nightmare from which I still have not recovered.

Just picture all those computer wires beneath your desk that you could never dream of untangling, and that is the sort of maddening, devilishly frustrating bureaucratic terror trap I have been cast into.

Now, at this point you're thinking to yourself (probably), "He got into some Kafkaesque nightmare because he ordered Ivory Satin Cake?" I know--sounds crazy. But hang on, because you're going to be shocked.

The cake was great. I jokingly said to the server, "You know, I would love the recipe!" The server, whose eyes were glazed, and whose head was lolling on his neck, slurred, "Sure, thing. I'll paper-clip it to the check." I shook my head sternly. "No, man," continued the disoriented waitron, "We do it all the time."

Imagine my shock when in the mail today I received a bill from Sleepy Chapel. A bill for the amount of $500! What?! I thought to myself, "They're billing me $500--for what?" Luckily it was an itemized bill...and guess what I was being charged for? You got it. Five hundred bucks for the recipe for Ivory Satin Cake.

I was floored. I was flabbergasted. I was flummoxed. I immediately got on the phone and spoke to a manager.

I was told that the Sleepy Chapel Sandwich Shoppe charges a recipe fee! I tried to explain to the manager that I had been only kidding, and that I would never have asked for the recipe had I known that I would be charged anything at all, much less five hundred dollars.

I'm sharing this tale with you so that you may learn from my experience. Don't even joke about wanting a dessert recipe from Sleepy Chapel...because the joke will be on you!

Caveat Emptor!

Bowl of Glop Extended-Stay Diner

2010-04-26T12:17:00.000-04:00

If you truly want to savor a meal, you need to dine at an extended-stay restaurant. The way I like to eat, an hour or two is definitely not enough. Dinner hour? How about, dinner week! And so when I want to give my tastebuds an all-out experience, I have a week-long meal at Bowl of Glop Extended-Stay Diner.

You'll love Bowl of Glop because, for one thing, you can reserve a table online. When you arrive, it's there for you in your own dining suite, complete with television, bed, and desk. I love how Bowl of Glop anticipates my wishes based on previous orders. The suggestions are marvelous! Order panko-encrusted plankton one day, and the next evening you'll be sure to see Jumbo tofu shrimp on your platter.

I like a leisurely lunch, and that's what you'll find at Glop. When the server sets down your bill and says, "No hurry!" you know they actually mean it, because you'll be staying for an entire week's worth of meals!

The ambiance, not surprisingly in an extended-stay diner, is a bit utilitarian. You might consider bringing some paintings or sculptures, or even houseplants, from home to spruce up your dining chamber a smidgen. Did I just say smidgen? But although Glop may look like a drab motel, the food is anything but. Your mouth will play an electric Sousa fireworks amusement-park storm of flavor when you bite into the unpopped-popcorn globes at Glop. Tantalizing tastes will greet you when the gates of your kiwi curd pork chops open on your tongue.

Overall, this relaxing dining concept is just what is needed in today's text-message society. So chill out and enjoy the week-long, 28-course meal offered at Bowl of Glop Extended-Stay Diner. I calmly give it Five Gobbets of Glop!

Restaurant Review: Shambles Steakhouse

2010-04-12T15:50:00.003-04:00

The maitre d' at Shambles stood at his lectern, eyes crinkling, smiling, shaking his head in wonder. "Astonishing," he said. "Simply astonishing. Table for one?" And that's the kind of greeting you can expect at Shambles Steakhouse. Ah, maitre! Want Shambles Steakhouse to always love me. I must say that if you'd like a restaurant staff that dresses like the mascot of an anglophile 1970's hotel, then Shambles Steakhouse is the place for you. I followed him through the mineshaft-style corridor into the main dining hall, where I was seated at a large wooden board. Since the board didn't have any legs, it was difficult to keep it from tilting, but I was able to keep it balanced on my knees the entire visit. "Marvelous!" the maitre d' cried. I think that I saw a tiny rivulet of moisture make its way down the rubbery surface of his cheek. Assuring me that my server would soon be arriving, he walked away, fists pumping in time with his footsteps. I sat a few moments at the rumpled tablecloth, enjoying the decor and ambiance of Shambles. The wintry Victorian atmosphere was most welcome, especially on a brutally humid summer's evening. Soon, the waitron arrived. The gigantic menu was impressive--it actually was a few inches taller than the server, and had to be walked into the dining room. The server opened it, but really that was unnecessary--I was in Shambles STEAKhouse, after all. I knew what I wanted.After ordering the crab cake sandwich with a side of linked onion rings, I sipped ale from my pewter mug and waited for my food to arrive. Shambles has always been an incredible dining experience. As you know, I have many pet peeves, and somehow Shambles manages to avoid all of them! It's positively Shambolic! Sorry. While my meal was being prepared, the singing strollers stopped by my table. You know how I feel about piped-in music--well, live music is always 100% better. And Shambles proves it. For you see, even when it's amateurish, live music has a life and charm to it that recorded music, no matter how professionally crafted, can never attain. The singing strollers, dressed in over sized overcoats, heartily sang "Greenland Whale Fisheries," perhaps my favorite sea shanty, though really, how can one choose? The amazing strollers roared out the shanty, to the delight of everyone in the dining room. Thankfully, when the owners of Shambles changed the eatery from a seafood emporium to a chop house, they kept the singing strollers on staff, and let them gradually begin the process of changing their repertoire. Only recently have western-themed songs like "All Along, Along, Along, the Colorado Trail" and "The Summer Wind" been added to the line-up. Combine the Victorian England ambience with sea shanties, and you have a great, unbeatable combo!The strolling singers continued to tickle my eardrums with their vocalizations when my food arrived. The crab cake sandwich was out-of-this-world! I loved the wonderful frosting and the layer of pineapple was just right. The linked onion rings were fantastic. Some of you may pull them apart before you eat them, but not I! No, I shove the entire thing in my mouth at once--a fried chain of delicious!Overall, I had another great experience at the reliable Shambles Steakhouse. The combination of food, atmosphere, music, and interpersonal dynamics among the waitstaff makes it THE steakhouse in the area. One would have to take a shuttle to colonized Mars to have a better dining experience. And so I enthusiastically award Shambles Steakhouse an almost-unheard-of FIVE PINEAPPLE RINGS!

Restaurant Review: The Sno-Cone Wagon Outside Unclaimed Carpet

2010-03-29T15:58:00.001-04:00

I think in my next life I'm going to be not a food critic again, but the operator of a sno-cone wagon. Today's visit to the sno-cone wagon that can be found on the sidewalk in front of Unclaimed Carpet convinced me of that. For one thing, the profits must be phenomenal! I mean, basically you're selling frozen water with syrup poured on it. So a sno-cone wagon may be in my future. And how often can you say that!After wandering in a stupor through the aisles and aisles of Unclaimed Carpet, numbed by the smell of carpet padding and dizzied by the carpet rolls that towered above me, I was in the mood for lunch. And what better way to satisfy your appetite than a sno-cone?First, let me describe the cart. This stainless-steel sno-cone wagon draws in the eye like a Venus Fly-Trap. The white powder finish, combined with the charming bicycle wheels, made me feel that I had been transported to a childhood beach. It was 1974 again, AM radio had gone completely insane, and 7up ads were everywhere. The perfect day for a sno-cone!After being magnetized by the wagon, I next spoke with the owner/operator of the wagon, "Mr. Phelps." "What are you having?" he asked. Let me tell you, the variety of sno-cone flavors is phenomenal. After looking through a thick binder of plastic sheets listing the thousands of flavors, I finally settled on Lime.How shall I describe the sno-cone? Oddly, it isn't precisely a cone. And it isn't literally made of snow. But, as they say, it is what it is. While the ice was a bit occluded, and I suspected the water was not fresh from a spring but perhaps had gushed from a garden hose, I did find the Lime syrup to be piquant and intriguing. In fact, I bought a jug of it to bring home with me. I think I'll pour a glass of it right now!Overall, my visit to the Sno-Cone wagon was exactly what it needed to be. Though it may not have been the finest sno-cone I've ever had, the Lime cone was cold, syrupy, and solid. The service, as performed by the indefatigable Mr. Phelps, was exemplary. All in all, a good experience, especially after the confusion and exhaustion of shopping at Unclaimed Carpet. And so I award the Sno-Cone wagon Three Ice Shavers!

2010-03-26T04:32:00.003-04:00

BLUTO: Bluto Pippy here, with a special treat for you, the Nice Guy. Our special correspondent Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton has the inside scoop on the pernicious syndrome that has destroyed your life forever. Thrill as Minerva breaks down the 'drome in a way that you can understand and will help you, if not overcome it, at least loosen its hold on your mind. You will recall that Minerva was the Roman goddess of wisdom, often portrayed with a companion owl. Our own Minerva is just as wise, if not wiser. And if you are wise, you will pay close attention, focusing like a laser beam on the thoughts and insightful words of our own Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton. Minerva?

MINERVA: Thanks, Bluto. I'm grateful for this opportunity to talk to all the nice guys out there in computer-land. Now, there's a lot of mythology--pardon the pun--going on around the culture about the Nice Guy Syndrome and what it means. I tell you, they even have phrases for it in other languages. For example, in French it's called Guy Syndrome de Nice. In Dutch, it's Nice Guy Syndroom. In German, it's a Syndrom. Ain't that a kick? Well, so now we know that it's a world-wide problem. There's nice guys in every continent, on every country in the global. I've looked over the logs of this particular website you're at right now, and I got to tell you, I can see there are guys from the whole planet--if not other planets like colonized Mars--who are suffering from this sickening syndrome. So now that we know it's like some kind of plague, what on earth can we do about it? I, Minerva, have decided that every week--more often if you tell Mr. Pippy that you like my reports--on a regular basis I will be sharing my special vantage-point into this disease. And in case you haven't noticed, unlike Bluto, I am a female woman. You've been using that ridiculous "female point of view" gambit for so long, you probably have forgotten that maybe you actually need that point of view, and not as some silly ploy. I guess you know by now that the ploys don't work. Everything's been publicized, it isn't clandestine any more. You need the real meat and potatoes of this "nice guy" bit, and I'm here to level with you. We're talking inside scoop here. Think a supermarket tabloid crossed with a message from a spaceman. Got it? OK, good, because you're about to take a wild adventure into the world of the cure for nice guy syndrome. And this is all going to happen in Seven Easy Master Lessons.

THE CURE IS FINALLY HERE!

You may be thinking to yourself, Minerva--surely there can't be some kind of universal panacea that is the sure-fire silver bullet for nice guy syndrome. Things just aren't that simple. Well, fortunately for you, things are that simple. Think about it. What's gotten you into this "nice guy" mess in the first place? Overcomplicating things. That's what. We're trying to get you on more of a caveman level, buddy. So start thinking simple. Forget overanalyzing things. You know what they call it--analysis paralysis. Well, if you've gotten the "nice guy" sickness, well, you probably overanalyze the heck out of everything in your life. Talking to you is probably like listening to some boring political discussion on public radio or something. Forget it! This is a primitive world, and you need to become a primitive guy. That's the first thing. So--simplicity is good. Like Henry Waldo Thoreau, Jr., says: "Keep it simple, stupid!" That's the word, and that's the sentence, and that's the paragraph. In fact, it's all the volumes! Ha ha. Sometimes I'm so clever I scare myself. OK. Back to the Nice Guy trap. And how we're going to get you out of it. I got the cure. For you.

THE MASTER EXIT TO THE NICE GUY CASTLE

You'll hear my friend Bluto Pippy (you bet your Pluto bippy!) often talk about the "nice guy castle." We'll, I'm here to tell you that there is a nice guy castle, and I know where the exit is! Once you've found the master exit from the castle, you will be well on your way to freedom, freedom from this mental disease that has been shackling you your entire miserable life. Don't give up hope! I, Minerva, am here to tell you that there is an answer--and I have it! Yes, I will point the way to you to escape from this castle you're trapped in. Just listen to Minerva. Listen to her owl. The owl is the bird of wisdom, and that's what you need to be right now. Wise? No...a wise acre!

THE MAGIC APPEAL OF THE WISE ACRE

I want you to think a moment. Not too much! That got you in this emotional fly trap in the first place. But think a little. Think about how you talk to women. I'm willing to bet that you are incredibly sappy. Earnest. Achingly earnest. I bet you talk to a woman like you're talking to some kind of mannequin or statue. Am I right? And you want to know why? Of course you do. It's because you haven't learned the Magic Appeal of the Wise Acre.

HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A HOLLYWOOD MOVIE?

Of course you have. Syndrome victims are usually obsessed with Hollywood films, particularly with old MGM musicals--I don't know why. But for all the netflixing you do, I bet you haven't really sat down and studied what's really going on in these movies. Because if you would only pay close, laser-like attention to these movies you spend your lonely, self-dating Saturday nights with, you would see that one of the Corridors to the Master Exit is contained in most simple, everyday, Hollywood motion pictures.

WHAT YOU CAN LEARN FROM THE MASTERS

I want you to get the feeling of male-female relationships as depicted in Hollywood films. Now, let's look at the male lead. This male lead is everything you, the nice guy, are not. Because he's going to be an alpha male. I hate to put it in such crude terms, but this is the language you've been indoctrinated to think in, so it's what I've got to do to get your attention. OK. Now one of the first things you need to know about this guy is he's going to be a smart aleck. And I mean a big-time smart aleck. We might even call him a smart-a$$ or wise-a$$. That's how extreme you're going to have to get. Because this earnest, public radio-type persona you've been using to talk to women ain't going to cut the Poupon any more, bud. You've got to become the wise acre of your woman's dreams.

WHY THE WISE ACRE WINS

When you start studying the Hollywood movies of your choice, you will notice some interesting facts. Watch a movie with some true movie buffs, and if you're watching a movie in which a man and woman are constantly bickering, what will the movie buffs in attendance shout out? Yes, they will say: "Those two are going to end up with each other!" That's right--the two characters who seem to hate and dislike each other, the ones who are always bickering and mouthing off at each other, they're going to wind up in some room together. And why? Because you need sparks to have romance, and to have sparks you have to have what? Think about it. How do you start a fire with two rocks, Mr. Caveman Guy? Yes, you need Friction. And Nice Guys are so scared of conflict, confrontation, and friction, that they never give these little sparks a chance to emerge, a chance to change over into full-blown forest fires! Only you, Mr. Nice Guy, can prevent the wildfires of passion from raging in your personal lives. And you've been doing a pretty darn good job of containing these fires your entire life!

THE PARADOX

And so you can see that you need to start adding a little bickering to your life with women. I mean it! There's no tension without little verbal digs and jabs. That's what starts the tension that must find its release somehow. All the greats, like Cary Grant for example, knew this. Imagine a Hollywood motion picture without the great repartee! The great wit! The wise-acreness! You can't. You simple can't. Without the bickering, you'll never have the good stuff. So you need to pave the way to paradise with a little friction, fella. Now you're so scared of friction that this might seem an impossible task to you, but you've got to bear with me a minute and think of how you can incorporate this new insight into your dating life.

TRY IT! THEY'LL LIKE IT!

So please, take it from Minerva, and start going on some movie binges. And pay careful attention to how the men and women have such great repartee, back-and-forth, and fun, comic, friction! Because it is fun, and don't you forget it. This whole "nice guy cure" isn't supposed to be some grim, humorless endeavor.

IT'S ALL IN THE BONES

Heck, it isn't just Hollywood movies. It's TV too. Yes, television has ample examples of the kind of thing you need to learn to overcome the nice guy malady. Have you ever seen a little show called Bones? I figured you did. Great show, right? Great special effects. Clever plotting and storylines. But what's the heart (the backbone as it were) of the series? The relationship between Temperance Brennan and Agent Booth. It's the tension in their relationship, tension brought forth by the friction of constant bickering and disagreements. They disagree about religion. They disagree about values. They disagree about the importance of emotions versus reason. And guess what. This continual arguing creates tension--tension that must eventually find its release. And these are kinds of truths you can apply to your own life. Think of other characters in the series, some of the interns say, and compare how they talk to Temperance versus how Booth does. See a difference there? Stop being an intern and start being a Booth! Got it? I thought so. Watch a few episodes. Talk off the cuff like Booth does, shoot from the lip. It won't hurt you. And for heaven's sake, start reacting instinctually to things the way Booth does, without overconsidering and analyzing everything to death. If you want to laugh, shout, cry, whatever, just do what comes naturally. Because you are Mr. Caveman. I have dubbed thee Mr. Caveman, buddy. And that's your destiny now.

TILL WE MEET AGAIN

OK, I've given you a short and sweet lesson that you can begin applying today. Look to Hollywood leading men to see how they create friction and sparks in their relationships. Pretend you're Booth in the TV series Bones. Pretend the object of your fancy is Temperance Brennan. How would Booth talk to her? What would he say? Stop using your brain and start acting more like an impulsive, instinctual caveman. That will put you on the fast track to the exit from the Nice Guy Castle. Remember--it's possible! Many guys have made the escape from the castle, and you too, can do it. And just think. They didn't have pals like Bluto Pippy and me, Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton, leading the way for them. Think of the benefits you have--all our insights and knowledge wrapped up in a pretty little package, just for you.

KEEP IT COMING

To continue to reap the benefits of my wisdom, I need you to do one simple thing (there's that word again). I need you to send the desired amount to:

Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton

Box Z

Colonized Mars

Once you make this decision, this existential choice, as it were, these life-changing lessons, gleaned from years of work in the field and the laboratory, will be beamed to the subcutaneous e-reader of you, the Nice Guy. And what could be better than that? Picture a life in which you no longer suffer from this dread ailment. And that's a world we could all live with, right?

Till next time, I remain your pal,

Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton

Restaurant Review: The Sleepy Chapel Sandwich Shoppe

2010-03-20T16:46:00.002-04:00

This afternoon I stopped for lunch at the Sleepy Chapel Sandwich Shoppe. This eatery is located in the shopping district of Villageville, a place I had avoided for years because for some mysterious reason the drive up there always induced a panic attack in me. What was it about the sedated greenery on the sides of the highway, the droning scent of summer and slumber, that made me feel trapped in my own car as I drove to Villageville? Painful thoughts attacked my psyche as I stayed in the right lane so as to be able to exit whenever I wanted to (much as some people like to sit near the exit in a movie theater, in case the figures on the screen loom too large, and the excessive soundtrack pummel the delicate mind). This somnolent village, once I'd arrived, seemed pleasant but oddly disturbing in its agrarian gentlemanliness. But I always made the trip because of my love for the Sleepy Chapel. Every year I would overcome my anxiety, get in my car with a well-highlighted set of printouts from the automobile association's site, and set forth for Villageville. And today I again had the longing to visit Villageville. After the car trip, which for once was in no way harrowing, oddly enough--my experiences last year traveling to numerous eating establishments may have inured me for good to interstate driving--I parked in the municipal dirt pit, got my ticket, and made my way to my destination, the one-of-a-kind Sleepy Chapel Sandwich Shoppe.The Shoppe itself is, like many of the other buildings in Villageville, a red brick building which seems to absorb somehow the heat of the sun and to be in a state of endless drowsiness. How amazed I was to see that the Shoppe, which a year ago had opened at 10 am (which I consider rather late for a restaurant) now, according to the sign in the window (a cartoon chef held on a tray a clock with moveable red hands) was to open at 11. Eleven o'clock! I pulled out my cellphone and noted that it was now 10:30. I had exactly a half hour to spend waiting for the Shoppe to open. What would I do? What was going on with the Shoppe that their hours of operation were becoming more and more circumscribed? I decided to go for a brief stroll, walking for fifteen minutes in one direction, upon which point I would turn in the opposite direction, taking another fifteen minutes to return to the Sandwich Shoppe. I thought it just might do the trick, and bring me back to the restaurant in time for opening.As I strolled along Village Street (not to be confused with nearby Village Road, Village Avenue, Villageville Street, and Village Circle), I glanced into the windows of the shops. The paint everywhere was peeling. A number of charming thrift shops charmed me, but I was intent on keeping my senses clear until I was ready to dine at Sleepy Chapel. Finding a long-lost childhood lunchbox might skew my critical eye for the entire day, and that would be doing you, the readers of these reviews, a grave disservice.After my half-hour's walk, I stepped into the Sandwich Shoppe. And who did I see sitting at one of the antiqued, green wrought-iron tables but my old friend Jacques Wool? I rushed to greet him, tripping on a rug but quickly righting myself. I shook hands with Jacques and sat down to join him for lunch."I see you have overcome your little anxieties and have made the trek to Villageville!" Wool said. "Though sometimes I wonder whether it is indeed worth the effort. The Sleepy Sandwich is not what it used to be. That is for certain!" Jacques leaned back in his chair and a gale of laughter stormed from his lips. Jacques continued, more soberly, "Once, I told you to check this place out. But you must realize, I am only human. And so is this Sandwich Shoppe! This may no longer be the food palace I once deemed it to be. This may be my last time in this joint. I am glad that you were able to be here for my farewell to Villageville!"The waitroid arrived then. As usual, Jacques ordered the cigar-flavored smoothie. I decided on the wonderful Eggless Omelet (all the ingredients you'd expect in an omelet, without the eggs--we're talking genius, here!). "I mean, really," Jacques stated, "is it worth the angst? You look like a ghost, man! Like a freaking specter!" Jacques cackled. "And for what? A plate full of diced ham and onions? I don't think so. You make the harrowing journey to Villageville once a year, and something about driving on that interstate gives you anxiety attacks--big time!" As we talked, I noticed that they'd turned on the music. The Buggles' "Living in the Plastic Age" was playing. "I haven't heard that one in years," I said. Jacques said, "What, the phrase 'big time'?" Our waitroid returned and set down our lunch. Before the server could leave, Jacques clenched his forearm and said, "Wait a moment, R2D2. I want to ask you a question. There's a big tip in it for you if you have the correct answer." Jacques blew a personfied cloud of smoke into the air and said, "My friend here has a problem. I think he has a certain sensitivity that is making him act strangely when he comes to Villageville." The waitroid looked at Jacques quizzically. Jacques said, "I think our friend here has a morbid sensitivity to...pinecones!" The server looked at though Jacques were either being nice to him or mocking him, and he couldn't be sure. "Pinecones?" he asked. Jacques said, "Yes, I think the highway to Villageville is lined with many pinecones, and these cause him to have a strange reaction. Maybe he was traumatized in the past. Maybe as a child a pinecone hit him on the noggin--and now he is afraid of them!" Jacques laughed heartily and pounded the table with his fist. "Whatever you do, do not--and I mean, do not--serve this man pinecones!" The waitroid answered noncommittally, and walked away. "What in Hades was that all about?" I asked Jacques. "Oh," Jacques said, forming a devilish point at the end of his Van Dyke beard, "you will see soon enough. Now that I've broached the subject, the true import of the symbolism will penetrate your subconscious mind." I started tucking into my omelet, pulling the sheet over my nose and mouth. "Jacques," I said, "you're a loon." Jacques slurped his cigar smoothie. It sounded like the suction in a dentist's office. "My friend, you need to get at the root of these phobias. But perhaps the Sleepy Sandwich is not the place for such explorations."The omelet as usual was fantastic. The diced ham and onions were well-polished and clicked pleasantly in my spoon. Jacques seemed to find his cigar smoothie rather satisfying--it appeared to put him in a mellow mood. "Did I ever tell you," Jacques said, "about the aspiring food critic who never actually ate at any of the restaurants he reviewed? Scandalous! He simply picked up copies of their take-out menu's and made up reviews out of whole cloth. Imagine! And no one was none the wiser--not any, not one!" Jacques absently tapped his forehead with his spoon. "Of course, he was apprehended. People cannot go through these kinds of clandestine machinations without being exposed. The idiot, he wrote a review of a restaurant that had been turned into a reptile shop! You can imagine how his editors reacted to that review when he phoned it in to them. They threw him out into the street! You may have your numerous faults as a restaurant critic, my friend, but at least you visit the eateries you are reviewing! I can say that much for you. You give us at least that much credit as readers--darn it, as human beings! Food criticism is not a game of jumping jacks!" At this Jacques slammed his fist on the table. "Food criticism is the most highly evolved form of reviewing in our century--and this man was playing pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey with it! Madness! Who knows how many people, taking him at his word, journeyed down to that reptile shop expecting it to be Shambles' Steakhouse? It's an insult! A literal insult!" Jacques' face was flushed with anger as he sat there panting, his aviator glasses misted over with rage, like seeing a red neon light through a car window on a rainy, foggy night. After a few minutes of trembling fury, Jacques seemed to calm down again. He slurped his cigar smoothie once more, then shrugged with upturned palms and pursed lips. "But if that's how he wanted to play the game, who am I to say no? I am not Milton Bradley."The waitroid returned and offered us dessert. I love dessert at Sleepy Chapel. I ordered the avocado cobbler; Jacques had the Calcium-Lover's Sundae. Lunch with Jacques was amazing always, but I needed to psychically prepare myself for the stressful ride home. "You think about those pinecones," Jacques reinforced as he shook my hand. Oddly though, as I pulled my car onto Village Street, the prospect of driving on the highway no longer caused me any anxiety. In fact, I was home before I knew it. Perhaps talking with Jacques had done the trick. Or more likely it was the confidence I'd gained through my many food-inspired roadtrips and daytrips of the previous year. Whatever the cause of my newfound calmness on the interstate, it showed that just as I could get used to new dishes like the fabulous avocado cobbler, so could I get used to the unfamiliar road to Villageville. I was glad I had overcome this driving phobia, because I had already begun to map out a number of restaurants in the surrounding area that I wished to travel to and enjoy.

Back to the Egg: the Beginnings of a Food Critic

2010-03-17T19:58:00.001-04:00

Long before I dreamed of being a food critic, I wanted to be a magician. Crazy, huh? No, it's magical. I was obsessed with magic. The embryonic food critic was a little boy in a tuxedo and a magic set. From the public library I checked out a book, no doubt some instant-bargain reprint (on cheap newsprint) of a book from the 1930's (I imagine) by somebody named Duninger (sp?) all about how to perform magic tricks. I'll google it later (google it later--isn't that everybody's motto now? Unless it's "google it now.") I remember my wand, black with white tips at both ends. I remember the black bowls, the coins, the rings, the scarves. All in a package for Christmas. I was going to be a magician. I was obsessed with Houdini. I watched a TV Movie called "The Great Houdinis" (plural--it was about his wife as well). I read paperback books about Houdini. I remember the local mall/indoor amusement park had a magic history exhibit. I saw Houdini's straitjacket! That mall also had a magic shop. I'd go there and buy tricks--for a while, but soon I started buying the gags and novelties instead, until at last I bought only the coverless (!) comics they sold there (I found a copy of The Great Gazoo). That mall is out of business now. I wanted so bad to be a magician. I was everything T.S. Eliot said about Edgar Allan Poe, except I really was a nine-year-old boy (or whatever age Eliot claimed Poe was stuck in). I think I bought Blue Oyster Cult's (umlaut to be provided later if never, I'm feeling lazy--can't you tell?) Agents of Fortune LP (on vinyl!) because of the mysterious picture of the magician on the cover. The strange glyph. The intriguing cards (I didn't know they were Tarot cards then. In my early twenties I became obsessed with the Tarot). And so I thought I would become a magician in later life, little dreaming (little dreaming!) that I would become instead the world's foremost food critic. What a twisted, misted labyrinth that led from that midwestern magic shop to my place at the forefront of culinary theory. Back to the egg, indeed!But--you must be asking--show us the thread and how it leads from one dream to another, please! I'd say I probably always was a food critic. Because I indeed was that child who people stated "ate like a bird." Ate like a bird! What kind of bird? A vulture? A hawk? No, I know what they meant, they meant some tiny pipsqueak of a feathered friend, chirping and chirruping, pecking and picking, eating crumbs, ah, not a ravenous lion tearing great chunks of meatloaf from his plate. That's what they wanted to see. But I, alas, had a bird's beak, not a lion's fang. Looking back, now, I see that what I possessed was greater than both of those things, for I was endowed with a little thing called "taste." Because I was able to make disinctions, even back then. I knew that King Vitaman (note the spelling--not "Vitamin" but "Vita-Man" in other words "VITAL MAN"--what crazed fantasies of virility were being packaged in these cereal boxes??) was much more interesting than Cheerio's. What could be less "cheery, oh!" than a bowl of Cheerio's, I thought as a child. Those sad, round oat rings floating pitifully in a milk bowl, the milk usually over-sweetened with grains of sugar since the stuff was inedible without adding at least seven lumps to it, and the sogginess of the rings as they became saturated with warming, sickeningly sweet milk. Where's my King Vitaman? Don't give me these nihilistic, life-despising circles of pathos! Give me my King Vitaman! And when that happened, when I decided that I preferred KV to Cheerio's, that was a mind-blowing, earth-tilting epiphanic moment that decided it for me. I put down my wand and picked up my food-critic's notepad. And I never looked back!As a food critic, I must make judgements. I must use the sword of criticism to divide the good from the bad, cuisine-wise. And most of all I must preserve your trust in me, as I promise not to lead you astray. I pledge that if a meal, no matter how trendy, tastes like chalk tablets to my tastebuds, I will report that to you. I recall walking up to shoppers in the supermarket as a child and warning them about products they were intent on buying. "No!" I howled. "Don't make the mistake of purchasing those jars of peanut butter already mixed with jelly! I had some last month and it's horrific! Please don't do that to yourselves!" And with crazed gestures like some insane symphony conductor I pulled boxes of Chicken-in-a-Biscuit off the shelves and threw them into their shopping carts. "Eat this stuff instead! I promise, you won't be sorry. Aw, you gotta listen to me. That stuff is just no darn good!" Soon I was tossing jars of canned heart-of-palm into the carts as well, as I stood there windmilling my arms, racked with frustrated, altruistic sobs. And so, a food critic was born. If there's a hero in this story, it's that little boy that I was, howling as he tosses bottles of Squirt and boxes of Quisp into the shopping carts of clueless consumers. Soon, of course, I began to speak up not just in supermarkets but in restaurants, and here my career as a food critic begins in earnest. If I saw somebody pouring ketchup on their fries at McDonald's, it was all I could do as a youngster not to flap my hands in their face and ask them if they'd never heard of vinegar. "Sour? Available in bottles? Good on French fries?" I began typing little reviews of restaurants on index cards and thumb-tacking them to telephone poles. I graduated to borrowing the school mimeograph machine to turn out purple copies of my restaurant criticism. Soon, as you know, I was given the Food Critic Prodigy Award . I was well on my way to greatness as a food critic. But of course, it's a "Long and Winding Road" from here to there.In between those early days and now there were many periods of transition as my tastebuds evolved. (For example, as a child I couldn't abide calamari, whereas now it's practically all I eat--or at least that's what some people would tell you!) I won't pretend that I haven't made a few food faux pas on my road to greatness. I was one of the first critics to predict that aerosol lard would soon be a tableside staple--what was I thinking?! But all in all, I think I've hit more bullseyes and stuck fewer bystanders with my opinions. And now with the Internet, I have a way of instantly seed-casting my insights across the entire solar system--even to colonized Mars!I want to thank you for joining me on this journey from the embryonic magician that spellbound his schoolmates and teachers, to the courageous food-reformer taking a stand in the grocery aisles, all the way to the successful, complacent food guru who rules the cyber waves! Remember, it's not how the chef stirs the food, it's how the food stirs you!

Restaurant Review: Foghorn Seafood

2010-03-16T16:53:00.001-04:00

On TV sitcoms, when somebody gets a new job it's always one their friends don't know about at a fast-food place. (Fast food, convenience food, quick serve, whatever). And there is one thing that always happens to this person. Two things. First, they are always made to wear an embarrassing cap. This cap is never the kind you actually encounter in a fast-food establishment--it always has a large spring attached to it from which bounces and bobs a giant chicken. And the person's friends always show up at the restaurant and get in line when the character is working the register. No, three things. For some reason unfathomable to me, television screenwriters believe that persons who work for fast food eateries are given company cars. The company car the character is given always has a (giant) chicken attached to the roof of it, much as the chicken is attached to his cap, though not on a spring. (Spring chicken? That is not where I was going with this observation). Anyway. Foghorn Seafood ("Where the food is never forlorn") is just the kind of place a sitcom character might get a job at, but in a good way. I'd had a hankering for seafood, so I stopped in at Foghorn this afternoon for lunch. If you're not from North Carolina, you don't know that there are two kinds of seafood in the piedmont state: Eastern (beach) style seafood and Western (mountain) style seafood. Now some purists may prefer Western seafood, but I myself, and perhaps it's a guilty pleasure, prefer the seafood that is served near the Atlantic ocean. While Western tartar sauce has its own flair, I suspect that most of you will agree with me (and you had better) that oceanside seafood is cooler. Now that we've gotten that little debate out of the way, let's talk Foghorn. Now remember, Foghorn is fast food, so there are no servers. You must take your place in line with the rest and read your selection not from a menu but from a menu board (huge distinction). There are two parts to this menu board: the main section, for adults, is subheaded "Old Salts." The smaller section is dubbed "Little Sea Monsters," which contains offerings for children. From "Old Salts," I ordered the beer-battered octopus-suckers with a side of anchovy fries, washed down with bottled saltwater. Now, some argue that saltwater in a bottle is no different from saltwater direct from the ocean, but I beg to differ. Bottled saltwater is better, and I can prove it. The atmosphere in Foghorn is what you'd expect in a quick-serve emporium--primary colors, plastic, music you would never willingly listen to. The octopus-suckers were scrumptious, and the anchovy fries some of the best I've encountered. I really love how the anchovy fries make you thirsty, and the saltwater you drink to ease your thirst makes you ever more parched than before! It's a lot like life. And it's a lot like lunch at Foghorn Seafood, which I'm giving a solid three tentacles!

Restaurant Review: Golly's

2010-03-15T16:52:00.002-04:00

What's the first LP you ever bought? Chances are it's framed and hanging on the walls at Golly's. Winner of the "best credit-card folder" award from my 2009 Restaurant Round-up, Golly's gives you all the nostalgia with none of the neuralgia. Dig? My first LP (vinyl of course) was K-Tel's Fantastic, which came out in 1973, I believe. I remember my parents buying it for me at Sears. I remember walking past the 1970's furniture department to the record department. Does Sears even still sell records? What an album! Whatever happened to Gunhill Road? Anyway, I was pleased as spiked punch when I was seated at Golly's and saw Fantastic on the wall right next to my booth. At Golly's, the platters on the table aren't the only platters you'll love! As I gazed at the cover, which I suddenly realized in a humbling ephiphany actually depicts the 7 colors of the spectrum--yes, Roy G. Biv himself--I recalled such favorites as "Back When My Hair was Short" by the aforementioned Gunhill Road and "Hocus Pocus" by Focus, just to name a couple from this 22-track cornucopia (22 Hits!! 20!!). You can imagine how sweetly thrilled I was when the server approached my table with my frosted glass of Squirt and apparently noticing me looking fondly at the album cover, stated, "You know, if you press the PLAY button beneath the cover, you can hear the album!" I had no idea. I mashed the button with enthusiasm and sat back with my Squirt as "Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree" dangled above my head from the ceiling like some musical sword of Damocles. I was in hog heaven! These were the songs that the other children in elementary school were always talking about--owning that album was possibly the last time I was ever "with it." This is just the kind of experience that Golly's will make you feel. The placemat was wonderful. It had cartoons of famous inventors on one side and cartoons of their inventions on the other. The puzzle? Match up the inventor with the invention. Sounds simple, but I had trouble with which innovator came up with AstroTurf and which one invented the Hitching Post. The menu was amazing, printed on placemat-style paper. In a place like Golly's, you have to order typical diner fare. What I had in mind was the pupusas on a pu-pu platter, and that's exactly what I got! By this point, Jerry Jeff Walker's unbelievably great "L.A. Freeway" was barreling down my brain folds, and it was time to order dessert. I passed on the dessert special, the Sea Cucumber a la Rasputin, and instead had a more traditional after-dinner sweet treat--the Haggis Volcano! Yes, folks, Golly's serves my all-time favorite dessert. If you haven't tasted hot haggis erupting like lava from a rich chocolate cake, then you haven't lived, my friend! The wonderful aroma of haggis drifted toward my nostrils like a fresh spring breeze as I gently broke the chocolate Etna with my fork. The mingling flavors of haggis and fudge tumbled on my tastebuds like acrobats. It wasn't till Maureen McGovern's heartsick "Morning After" fell over me like a parachute of sadness that I realized my dessert was gone. So let's see. I got to hear my favorite songs as I ate my favorite dessert, the wondrous, magical Haggis Volcano. Together, they make a great combo, and make me happy to give Golly's an enthusiastic Five Original Stars!

Bluto Pippy

2010-03-12T20:10:00.003-05:00

DO YOU SUFFER FROM NICE GUY SYNDROME?

Bluto Pippy here with the lowdown on the psychotic condition known as The Nice Guy Syndrome. If you're looking for the cure to this disease, you've come to the right place. Never again will you need to suffer from this droning syndrome. Pain has been your path until this day. Now you have found the clinic where you will receive the urgent treatment you oh so desperately require. If you are a Nice Guy, you need look no further, no further than here. So put on your thinking cap, corrugate your brow, and pay attention, because I am about to reveal to you the arcane secrets of how you, the sufferer from this tormenting syndrome, may be released from your agony once and for all. Because for the first time, I am going to reveal the Syndrome-Smashers that I usually reserve for my special "Bluto Pippy Turbo-Seminars." Can you believe it? I am going to give you the keys to the kingdom, my friend. And believe me, they are the Master-Key to Escaping the Nice Guy Castle.

THE NICE GUY CASTLE

What in the heck is the Nice Guy Castle, you may be asking yourself. After all, you may be saying to yourself, I may be a nice guy, but I don't live in a castle--I can barely make the rent or mortgage on my own place. And here's this guy Bluto Pippy telling me I'm trapped in some kind of castle. Next thing you know, he'll be telling me that I own a yacht or a limousine or even a cruise ship. Easy does it. I'm not talking about a literal bricks-and-mortar castle. No, I'm talking about a castle that you build--in your own mind!

LET ME TELL YOU A STORY

I wasn't always like this. I wasn't always the commanding, confident, decisive, steely-eyed man you see before you (in your imagination, of course). No, I used to be the typical spineless nice guy. If there was a school for invertebrate males, I would have been at the head of the class. I was the typical listening post for all the young ladies in town. They would cry on my shoulder till I wished I had drip-dry skin. But that wasn't my only problem. Because I was a textbook case of the Nice Guy Syndrome, the most pernicious pestilence known to the male psyche. But this is what's most important--I invented the cure!

THE SYMPTOMS

Before I tell you about the cure, let Bluto Pippy strap on his doctor's mirror and do a little diagnosing. If I'm not mistaken, you are in your twenties, male, a college student. You're up late on a Friday evening, and most importantly, you're alone. The internet has its solaces, sure--but it sure ain't no substitute for the gardens of female companionship. But if you've been crying all night in your rootbeer, it's time to put a grin back on your face, because things are about to change. And brother, do I mean change!

BUT WHAT ABOUT THE CASTLE?

Each Nice Guy lives in a castle of his own making. The Nice Guy Castle--not a real castle, remember, it's symbolical--is made up of three things: a Moat, a Drawbridge, and a Gate. These three things make up the hiding place that's keeping you from finding your dream girl. Lucky you stumbled on Bluto Pippy's Syndrome-Cure website--aren't you?

THE CURE

OK, you've been waiting long enough. You want to know the cure. You want to finally be free of this dread condition. You want to no longer be the Nice Guy, the confidant, the friend. You want to be a duplicate of myself, Bluto Pippy. Well, for the first time, I am offering you...

THE BLUTO PIPPY MASTER SYNDROME-SMASHER HOME STUDY COURSE!!!!!

Look at what the course contains:

1. A tufted ottoman (a kind of footstool) which contains a hidden compartment in which you may privately store your Syndrome-Smasher Lessons.

2. A stylish plastic carrying case containing 35 ultra-modern high-tech cassette tapes featuring my greatest lectures.

3. An official Syndrome-Smasher Certificate of Honorable Completion (suitable for hanging).

4. A bottle of Bluto Pippy Hypno-Sauce. Zest up your hot dinner dates with a dollop of this fiery, trendy sauce.

5. A hardbound, imitation leatherette edition of an out-of-print self-help book from the 19th century--sure, you could download it for free off of the internet, but that would be less lucrative for myself.

There you have it. This course will work wonders for your intimate life. You have no choice but to order now. Send cash only to:

Bluto Pippy
P.O. Box Z
Colonized Mars

Remember, if you don't act now, you will live with endless regret for the rest of your pitiful, loser's existence.

Gold Medal

2010-03-12T12:53:00.002-05:00

Gold Medal book covers

Top 10 Restaurant Pet Peeves

2010-03-10T16:47:00.002-05:00

Top 10 Restaurant Pet Peeves
Here at the top 10 eatery annoyances that never fail to drive me batty!

1. "We're Out of That."

What?! Is this a restaurant or the Monty Python "Cheese Shopppe" sketch? Nothing irritates me more than a menu item that is unavailable. In the past I've been denied such arcane items as table salt, water, breadsticks, and napkins, all on the grounds that the restaurant is "out of it." Oh, you're "out of it," all right. Don't you realize I may have flown through an electrical storm in my private helicopter to visit your dining establishment--just for one item? That item you now have the effrontery to tell me you're "out of." This is why we need digital, constantly updated menu's. (I know there shouldn't be an apostrophe in the plural form of "menu," but I just wish it were correct. "Menus" just looks weird to me.) Maybe I've been having, as the rock band Bread would have it, "A Rather Dismal Day." Maybe that special item, that squash sorbet, or canned bread, or side of conch fritters, is all that is standing between me and the abyss? Huh? Have you never thought of that? Whoever does your ordering needs to think twice about cutting back on how many strips of fruit leather you need in your smokehouse.

2. Shrieking Children

When I dine, I wish to engage all of my senses. This means that I not only wish to inhale the aroma of the seared koi on my plate, I also want to hear the fishbones snapping in my mouth. What I do not wish to hear is your out-of-control progeny screaming their lungs out because there's too much picklelilly in their milkshake. Ear-splitting shrieks better suited to an asylum are not the kind of ambient noise I seek out in my bistro of choice. When I have to wear NRR 33 earplugs to a restaurant, something is wrong.

3. Happy Birthday Yourself

If somehow you've done some kind of background check and have found out my date of birth, do not--and I mean, do not--in any way, shape, or form let the servers in any restaurant where I am dining know this fact. I will not tolerate a ring of servers around poor, captive me--clapping their hands, shouting in some kind of maniacal crescendo--singing one of those royalty-avoiders I've discussed here and here. Is public humilation an amenity now?

4. Servers Who are Secretly Morticians

I know it sounds like some lame nightclub comedian's joke, but I'm sorry. If I have to deal with one more server who is "really a mortician," I'm going to scream. When your waitron stops in the middle of reciting the specials to show you some 8 X 10 glossies of his latest achievements in funerary cosmetics--well, excuse me, I'm just not interested. I don't normally complain about the waitrons, but these vain, self-absorbed server/undertakers are just plain annoying. Do you really think you're too good to refill my iced tea glass because you go to mortuary school at night?

5. A Television

I go to restaurants to get away from things like television. And no, turning the volume all the way down and putting on the Closed Captioning doesn't make it any less irritating.

6. An Aquarium

When I see an aquarium in a restaurant, I feel like I'm dining in some 1960's secret agent's penthouse apartment. I don't know why.

7. Bad Music

Sometimes I think there's a special satellite that beams only terrible music, and that the eatery I'm dining at is tuned into that signal. Don't play fake "new wave" songs by third-rate acts from 1980 who specialize in obvious keyboard sounds and sarcastic vocals when I'm swallowing my evening meal, thank you.

8. Managers Who Tell Me Their Theories

Please stop loitering at my table to bore me with your theories about such matters as electricity, space people, spelling reform, the medicinal uses of various plants, disposable single-use cameras, perpetual motion, the year 2012, reality, the mind, or time travel. I will feel as though I had been immured like a character in Edgar Allan Poe. I'm serious.

9. Restaurants that Misspell "Edgar Allan Poe" on their Menu

Ulalume's, you know who you are.

10. Sanitation Ratings of F

If your dining establishment can't at least earn a D, you'll have to make it up in areas other than sanitation--and so few restaurants do. If I can get a C in Microbiology, then you guys can at least get a D in cleanliness and food safety!

Well, there you have it. The Top 10 things that annoy me when I'm eating out. I'm sure you have your own Top 10 list, but not as good. If you were thinking of adding to this list in any way with your own comments, please don't. But you have my permission to agree that by avoiding these culinary irritations--using them as a checklist, as it were--then you will have a much brighter future in the world of food.

Restaurant Review: The Velcro Elk & Crow

2010-03-03T07:28:00.001-05:00

Looking for a respite from the season's unrelentingly sloppy weather, I stopped for dinner last evening at one of my favorite chophouses in the area, namely The Velcro Elk & Crow. If you've never eaten at "the Velc" before, then I must warn you--this review contains spoilers! But having said that, let me assure you, dear reader (monitor-starer?) that The Velcro Elk & Crow contains no spoiled food. Whatsoever. No, everything is fresh as a soggy hillock in springtime. The weather felt nothing like springtime as I stood outside the Velc Elk with numerous others waiting for a seat. The air thrummed with excitement as we waited. Some shared traumatic stories from their youth. Others smoked. One patron was surprised to find that what looked like one of those black ashtray stands, the kind that look like a plastic baseball-bat with a hole in it stuck to a covered, ribbed bowl, was actually not an ash-collector but a speaker. What?! Yes, mellow instrumental jazz-rock was wafting from the device. The patron was severely rebuked by another (not in his dining party!) for this indiscretion. After an hour or so, the watering hole opened again for dinner. Concerned about being stampeded to death, I waited for the impatient, pushy diners to enter before I even made the attempt. I would never come between a hungry Velc fan and their dinner! When the excitement died down, I made my way gingerly into the lobby of the Velcro Elk and Crow. The hostess was staggeringly efficient (she may have been drunk). "Two?" she asked. "Three? One?" I declared, "One...non-smoking,please," adding that little squib to see if this hostess were up-to-speed on the latest anti-tobacco legislation. "It's all non-smoking, sir. You aren't the fellow who tried to drop ash in the camouflaged Bose out there, are you?" I chuckled. "It wasn't me! I swear!" After this delightful exchange, the hostess shepherded me through the Quasi-Bethan decor of the Velc. "Will this be fine?" she asked. What an amazing booth! It was like a giant four-poster bed, complete with canopy. "I think it will do," I smirked. "Your waitron will be here in a moment," the hostess promised. I settled into the booth, head spinnning with wonder. My waitron arrived with my menu, a leather folio with a tassel as large as a full head of hair. "My name is 'the Grappler' and I'll be your server this evening." I ordered a carrot rickey and turned to the menu. The menu was a feast for the eye! It featured wondrous color photographs of still lifes, pearls and wine bottles and artificial roses next to plates heaped with onion rings. Incredible! When the server returned, I knew what I had to do. "I want this!" I demanded, pointing at one of the photographs. A glass of violin was depicted next to a glass of wine and a plate of noodles. "The Falstaff Noodles, sir, a very good choice. One of my favorites. I just had that for lunch today," the waitron rambled. "Spare me your personal testimony. And I don't just want the noodles. I want the violin." The waitron looked at me quizzically. "I want the plate of noodles with a few strands of noodle draped lovingly over the Stradivarius, darn it, just like in the picture!" I realized I was raising my voice. But at this point I didn't care. "Sir," the waitron stated, dealing with me as though I were a crazed attacker, "that's merely an artist's representation, man." I flipped wildly through the menu, pointing at various photographs. "And this? The bust of Beethoven and the vase of ferns next to the bowl of pheasant soup? Is that just an artist's representation? They can't all be artists' renderings? Is none of this real?" By this point, the customer-care manager had arrived. She looked down at me sternly through a pair of giant eyeglasses, the type not seen since the mid-1980's. "I've been told you have a problem with the artwork in our menu." I told her, "Just slip me a free dessert and be on your way, madam." The dessert was a mind-blowing deep-fried blondie. It was carried back and forth on my plate in bite-sized pieces by a team of synchronized ants forming a mesmerizing kaleidoscope. As I speared a moving piece with my fork, I regarded myself fondly. Another free dessert from the Velcro Elk & Crow. Let's just hope they never catch on and change their menu--or add the phrase "artist's rendering" to its pages. All in all, a fabulous meal, and so I grant the Velcrow Elk & Crow a whole-hearted Five Velcro Strips!

Restaurant Review: Hieronymo's

2010-02-22T23:58:00.002-05:00

I've never been all that fond of the portmanteau word "brunch." I find it annoyingly cute. And why on earth, if you're going to combine the words "lunch" and "breakfast" (since I assume that's the derivation of this "word"), why not call it "leakfast"? Or spell it "leekfast" and include at least the name of a food in the darn thing? Despite my misgivings, I tried the "brunch" today at Hieronymo's, and I was not disappointed. "Hieronymo's mad againe," and I'm mad about brunch at Hieronymo's. Some have accused me of hubris. As a food critic, that is an occupational hazard second only to salmonella. But I feel that my personal hubris may have bitten me on the hindquarters this time. Because let me tell you, the brunch at Hieronymo's upset my expectations. It brought me to my knees, people. And made me feel oddly ashamed. Ashamed of myself for dismissing their brunch just because I think the name is silly. Maybe, after all, I am the silly one. No--mustn't think that way. But the brunch at Hieronymo's means many things. You can have an egg, say. What will you have the chef do with that particular egg? Maybe poach it. Maybe scramble it. Hard-boil it? No problem. Sunnyside up? Absolutely. Over easy? It can be done. Over hard? Hey, pal, it's what we do. So again, I am humbled. Hieronymo's has a clean, ski-lodge feel that sharpens my appetite like a saw. And so I ordered the egg. Now, I recommend Hieronymo's during the summer solstice, because the waitrons during that season do something very special. They have a way of balancing the egg that will truly astound you. I won't spoil it by saying just what it is they do, but once you see this performance, you will never ever forget it. I'll just leave it at that. Now what I like about Hieronymo's is that they're no fly-by-night eatery. They're in it for the long haul. They don't succumb to the latest fading food fads (anybody remember the Pet Lime?). Not at all. They serve classic cuisine in a classic way. No flavor-of-the-month chasers at Hieronymo's. No sir. And that gives you confidence as a diner. I don't mean a diner as in a type of restaurant, I mean rather "diner" as in "a person or persons dining." Just to clear that up. Ambiguity has no place in a food review. One thing I despise is an obscure restaurant review peppered with private references. A restaurant review must be a resonant review--that's my motto. Just in case you were wondering. Food nostalgia has its place, but I much prefer the timeless classicism of Hieronymo's. I mean, truly, must we keep trying to re-invent the cheese wheel? I don't look for the newfangled when I want to sink my fangs into a half-rack of ribs, say. Food is food. That's what it has been, and all it will always be. What it all boils down to is hunger and satisfaction. So call me simple. I believe in standards and I believe in staples. For me, the perfect restaurant would serve milk, bread, meat, and cheese. That's it. Everything else is just a variation on those themes. Can you think of a great entree that isn't just a mixture of those four? Didn't think so. I'm kidding. That is absolutely not my view. Food must be complex. It must be interesting. I want food that is a synthesis of every cuisine known to humankind. I want every spice in the rack to be tossed in--and the wooden rack too (don't knock it till you've tried it). When I dine, I want it to be intense. The meal should be made up of adrenaline, extreme emotions, reptilian intensity. Erotic insanity. Transgression. Give me a transgressive dish of grilled vegetables any time. I want the soup to crawl across the desert of my appetite like a sidewinder. I want the mozzarella sticks to escort me to a very dark realm. I want the pepper grinder to be positively nihilistic! That's what I'm looking for in a meal, and that is precisely what Hieronymo's offers me. And so that's where I will return for brunch, for lunch, for a midnight snack, even! Hieronymo's is the place for you. It's like a sweet dream where you're holding out your outspread hands below an avalanche of cash. It's that astonishing, and it's that wonderful. Because at Hieronymo's, they aren't just about the bottom line. They actually are trying to create a memorable food ordeal for you to go through until you've changed as a human being. So try Hieronymo's. Don't complain that they aren't the typical plastic theme restaurant. They have other things are their mind, other things on their menu. Things like summer solstice eggs. And stunning spearmint pudding. And wait till you try the mock guacamole! And so, brought low by a place called Hieronymo's, I humbly give it five--yes, five--solid yolks.

Restaurant Review: Pork Belleez

2010-02-20T21:20:00.001-05:00

The eyes of the waitron at Pork Belleez had that gripping, ancient mariner-style intensity that one always looks for in a server. When the waitron said, "I'll be taking care of you this evening," I felt like I was in some sort of hand-cart being sent down a railroad track into a spooky cave. That's when I knew I was going to like Pork Belleez and everything about it. If you haven't been to Pork Belleez, you may think that it's an eatery devoted to pork and other pig products--far from it! As the waitron explained, "We're about more than just pork. Our mission statement is wider than that, thank you very much." A field of crackling electricity hummed in the air between the laser glare of the waitron and my own friendly, otter-like orbs. If the food were only half as riveting as the waitron's gaze, why, Pork Belleez was going to be quite a thrill ride! Whether it was madness or just dedication, the eyes of the waitron had me primed for a fantastic Pork Belleez experience. The ambiance at Pork Belleez could be summed up as unpretentious, casual fare, much like the snack bar at the roller rink of my youth. I remember gliding gracefully up to the counter as the top-40 hits of the mid-seventies breathed from the ceiling. The menu board was made up a plastic sheet into which black and red letters could be affixed. I don't recall precisely what I had that evening nearly 35 years ago (I mean, really!) but it was most probably a hot dog of some sort. And that's the kind of feel you get from Pork Belleez. It would be blasphemous to compare the place to high-end eateries like Simply Slop or Food Ghost, and so let me say it brings back that "hot dog in a roller rink" feeling we all know so well. In my 2009 round-up I mentioned this restaurant's delightful mascot, Uncle Pig, who roams the aisles of the eatery like a pig-shaped squeak toy the size of a small hut. Delightful! And as he walks, Uncle Pig indeed gives an incredibly loud and forceful squeak with each hoofstep. With a chef's hat propped on his head, the good Uncle is always ready with a grunt and a wave for Pork Belleez patrons. Wave back at Uncle Pig, now! And get ready to chow down, because your entree has arrived. Pork Belleez has a tadpole bisque to die for! I used the convenient one-size-fits-all elastic strap to put on my Belleez bib and dug in. Next, I enjoyed dessert, a mesmerizing tray of ice cubes made from that wonderful lemon-lime Squirt beverage. Now, I am not known as the warmest human being in the solar system. I will have no need for cryogenic freezing at the time of my demise, let us say. And leave it at that. But there's something about Pork Belleez that just gives me a warm, amber glow. And I cannot for the life of me explain why! Ah, weary traveler, when you see that Pork Belleez logo on the exit sign on the interstate, pull over, why don't you. Perhaps you are an exhausted rock star, in need of sustenance. Let that tour bus find its way into the parking lot of this comforting restaurant. Drop a few ashes into the black plastic ash-receptacle near the front door if you're so inclined. If this is your first time at Belleez, I truly envy you. What a thrill to step into this pork goldmine for the very first time, before the jaded season falls upon you. And I can speak of the wonders of this place until I'm blue in the face (hmm...that might be interesting!) but I sometimes doubt whether these reviews I write have ever inspired one single person to visit any of the fabulous bistros that I have judged to be the greatest of their kind. Oh, well. All I can do is say, "Hey. It's a good restaurant. It's called Pork Belleez. I really think you're going to like it. You know, I was there the other night and I gave it a pretty good review. You don't even have to remember what you ordered last time, because the waitrons take notes!" Pork Belleez, I give you a well-deserved Five Snouts!

Restaurant Review: Kerplunk's

2010-02-19T19:30:00.004-05:00

If you've read any of my reviews, you know that I don't indulge in so-called "confessional-school restaurant criticism." That's just not my style. But in the case of Kerplunk's, I find that I must "go autobiographical" on you and begin with a personal anecdote. I hope you will forgive this foray into the lignin-free scrapbook of my mind. Kerplunk's is not a restaurant I can be in the least bit objective about, because it was at Kerplunk's that I once had a very upsetting experience that completely tints if not taints how I see this perhaps fine eatery. For as a young person dining at Kerplunk's, I was one evening cast into a state of mind-splintering terror by this seemingly innocent dining establishment. I had recently been awarded the "Food Critic Prodigy" award by the local diner theater (yes, not dinner but diner theater), the Gasp and Swallow. The award ceremony was being held at Kerplunk's. If you have never been to Kerplunk's, realize that the restaurant, with its marble floors and ceilings, potted palms, wind machine, and ultra-violet novelty sculptures, has an atmosphere that can't be matched for nerve thrills. And it was here that I was brought to be honored as a brilliant young food critic in the making. So far, so good. Seated at the head of the table, and cajoled into wearing a deeply embarrassing mortarboard cap with tassel, I endured the forced "Hip, Hip, Hooray!" chant (did anyone ever really DO that?) and the rounds of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow," a song which is sung on television and movies to avoid royalty payments to the estate of the composer of "Happy Birthday to You" and for no aesthetic reason whatsoever(for more on royalty-avoiding music, please see my review of The Bitterest Gumpdrop). The waitron arrived, and I was told by Dr. Gopp, the director of the diner theater, to order anything I liked, within reason. By this point, the eerie ambiance of the eatery was working on me, and I began to notice a distinct lack of ventilation in the dining room. This paucity of ventilation, combined with an oppressive mildew-sweetness, caused a sudden light-headedness to strike me. Glancing at the cringe-worthy "kiddie menu" I'd been handed, complete with a line drawing of a an elf eating a cheeseburger (as if!), I felt the sweet smothering smell overwhelm me and--my vision went black! I jumped back from the table to keep from sinking into that ink-dark whirlpool of unconsciousness. Dr. Gopp looked at me as though I were mad, as did the diner theater's publicity manager, Miss Honing-Stone. "I've just had the sensation of fainting or swooning," I urgently communicated to the pair. Dr. Gopp accused me of feigning the passing out as a means of gaining attention (as the guest of honor, would that have been at all necessary?). The awards dinner, in short, was a fiasco. So now, returning to Kerplunk's as a professional restaurant critic, I find that my detachment is strained by a bitter memory that still rankles. But as happens so often upon returning to a place of adolescent memory, the emotional charge is gone. I am free to enjoy (or not enjoy) Kerplunk's for what it is (or is not--or perhaps merely what it aspires to be). First, I must say that the ventilation problem has been completely taken care of. Perhaps the recent addition of ventilation shafts and open windows has played a part in this improvement. The decor is still the same--walking into Kerplunk's is like walking onto a creepy 1930's movie-musical set in time for the filming of a production number set in some movie-director's vision of heaven. The food is adequate. I've always liked French toast made with rye bread, but I've never precisely loved it. And that's the kind of place Kerplunk's will always be. Sure, a plate full of radishes is good food, but it isn't great food, and therein lies the problem with Kerplunk's. Aside from any unpleasant youthful memories that the place may evoke, it's the less-than-impressive fare that keeps me from going back. While the waitrons, who entertain with hilarious jokes and riddles, are often delightful, Kerplunk's is in the end, nothing special. And so, through the lens of painful memory, I award--that word again!--this eatery called Kerplunk's a paltry three gasps, three swallows.

Restaurant Review: Simply Slop

2010-02-15T23:50:00.002-05:00

At an eatery called Simply Slop, I ordered a breaded pork chop, with a side of waxed fries dyed with various dyes, till I ordered the waitron to stop! You can stop chuckling now. Simply Slop is the "feel good restaurant" of 2010. I said it, you believe it, and that settles it. All kidding aside, you just never know what the culinary innovators at Slop have up their sleeves. Multi-colored French fries? Sure, why not. As their commercial, sung by that sort of singing group that usually does local carpet jingles, goes: "Simply, simply slop...it's the place! Wow!" Even the tablecloths are astonishing--they look like they're sculpted out of butter. And the waitrons speak through some kind of voice-distortion device that really gives the dining experience an edgy vibe I know of at no other restaurant. I want people to really feel the excitement of Simply Slop, but I fear that my review may not be enough to convince people to make that journey to an admittedly unattractive side of town to "live the slop" as we fans say. But please visit this establishment. Please. You'll like it. Really. It's the best restaurant. Ever. The food is so good it's ludicrous. The cotillion-script sign in faint green states "Simply Slop" and what could be simpler? I want you to relax right now and picture yourself walking through one of those giant concrete frogs near a mercury pond. Now see yourself in a gleaming guttering bubble, one of its sides dangerously close to losing tension. The bubble wants to protect you from bad food, and so it guides you lovingly to one of the worst roads in town, a strip with incomprehensible traffic. It wants you to open the metal and glass door to Simply Slop. It guides you into the lobby. You see a tarnished brass post with a dark brown sign with gold lettering that states: "We Must Wait to be Seated." And you wait for the server. We feel that you humans, stumbling on your benighted paths, need but to sample the unhydrated Tang salad with crumbled pieces of Chicken-in-a-Biscuit crackers, or the flamingo chowder, or the mush croquets, for you to attain enlightenment. We feel you are dwelling in illusion until you taste what Slop has to offer, the nectar of peace on a blue plate. Sit yourself right down at the "Slop Slab." Start with the petrified truffles and then work your way down the "food chain" till you've sampled every delight on offer. You will love the decor. The high walls are lined with wooden trellises to which are pinned giant silky wreaths and paintings of mournful comic drunkards. Malfunctioning portable black-and-white televisions are set up on each table to keep us occupied before the first course arrives. Thoughtfully, a roll of aluminum foil is provided for better reception. With a tingle of anticipation, you page through the suede menu, looking for that perfect liverwurst soup served in a hollowed-out pineapple. And it is there...it is all there waiting for you at Simply Slop. I give it infinite stars, my friends. Infinite stars.....

Restaurant Review: The Bitterest Gumdrop

2010-02-14T10:03:00.002-05:00

A first! Tonight, I am transmitting a "live" restaurant review. Yes, I am writing this message direct from the eatery that I am reviewing. Never say that I am behind the times, as I sit here in the Bitterest Gumdrop with my laptop computer. Looking around me, I see the rummage sale decor that gives "the Drop" its bohemian ambiance, and I am well pleased. The fanciful lamps, the brown scratchy curtains, the exposed wiring--it all screams "beatnik eats" and that is always a good diversion from serious cuisine. I must say that I was quite impressed with the fare available here. I will get to that later. I want to mention something I alluded to in my awards for 2009, and that is the "royalty-avoiding almost hits" that pour from the speakers here. It takes a certain kind of genius to pen a tune that sounds almost exactly like a top-ten hit but not enough that an attorney won't give it the seal of approval. Right now, I'm enjoying a version of Neil Diamond's "I Am...I Said" that is teasingly recognizable yet oh-so-different. I love it! I think I may even love it more than the original (heresy!). If you know anything about me, you know that I consider "I Am...I Said" to be my personal anthem, so for me to say that a song that skirts travesty and rip-off may even be more loved by me is wondrous beyond the imagining. It's good enough to appear in a TV commercial as a jingle--I'm not kidding! And so, soaking in the "beatnik generation" atmosphere and hearing a delightful variation on my life anthem, I await the arrival of my waitron. As an appetizer, I ordered the Decorative Cabbage--and ah, speak of the angel, for here is my waitron with the cabbage, lovingly displayed in a huge terracotta pot. The cabbage has a perfect purple hue and as I unroot it from the dirt, I'm amazed at the "eye ecstasy" it grants me. After gobbling this decorative delight, I am now ready for the entree. And do you believe it, but the attentive waitron is at tableside with an open-face cottage cheese and graham cracker sandwichette with a side of sarcastic Funyons stuffed with anchovies. Perfect! I'm liking this place more and more by the minute. The wonderful waitrons are skidding around the waxed floors of the room dressed in early-1960's artists smocks, and I couldn't be more charmed. On to dessert. I've selected the maple seahorses, and what a great decision that has turned out to be! As I savor these decadent candy creatures, I wallow in the realization that there is nothing bitter about my experience here at the Bitterest Gumdrop. And so I heartily commend "the Drop" to you with my highest commendation--Five Freaking Decorative Cabbages!

Poetry of John D. MacDonald

2010-02-13T13:49:00.001-05:00

"Dry-leaf hands and wood-dried and carved and polished.
Clockwork heart and silver loins. Steel-dry
teeth and cordovan tongue. Jeweled eyes
and paper lungs. Function, balance, precision.
Intersection of lines. Roll of bearings.
Predictable rotation of stone planet."

--John D. MacDonald, Contrary Pleasure

Restaurant Review: Food Ghost

2010-02-07T20:58:00.003-05:00

This afternoon I dined at Food Ghost. This eatery, housed in a Gothic revival mansion, gave me one of my least disappointing culinary experiences in the past few days. Now, those of you in my personal circle of friends know that I have many hilarious "restaurant horror stories" to share, but never before have "horror stories" and "restaurant" mixed in such an agreeable fashion. At Food Ghost, everything wonderful about fear and food reaches its ecstatic apotheosis. A horrible knell thrills the air when you pull on the purple velvet cord at the front door. The wooden slat of the wrought iron-encaged "speakeasy" slides open and your maitre d's paranoid, marmoreal eyes shift until you state the password and he allows you to enter this amazing pageant of spooky food. The eerie Victorian decor and funereal organ music set the proper tone. And the food itself! Bliss on a tablecloth. Wait, that sounds creepy. But let it stand, because Food Ghost is THE place for creep cuisine. Thankfully, the Food Ghost folks have more imagination than to offer "terror-themed" provisions. The waitron served me an astounding shark medallion enrobed in jalapeno jelly and japes of chocolate nonpareils. Afterwards, I went mad for the heart-pounding excitement of the dessert--yes, it was my favorite--a Brown Mule. If you haven't had a Brown Mule, then I pity you. I mean it--you're pathetic. But, like someone who has never read these reviews before, you are in for a treat. I must say the choice of beverages was excellent, and I was surprised and intrigued by the glass of "Dr. Perky" the waitron insisted I must sample. I wound up buying an entire case of the stuff! And as you know, I just don't do that. A wonderful thing about Food Ghost is how each dining area has its own theme. There's a Music Room, a Portrait Gallery, a Scullery, a Trussing Chamber, and a number of other fabulous interior choices. I dined in the Portrait Gallery, and found the portraits truly terrifying. For they aren't paintings--far from it! Food Ghost features huge framed color photographs of Victorian-costumed customers of Food Ghost. What a hoot! After dessert, I was taken into the Photographer's Studio and sat for my Food Ghost portrait. I was dressed as some mystique-saturated Victorian magician--how appropriate! I am proud to say that my portrait now hangs among the many others in the gallery. What could be spookier? From the damp, chilly atmosphere of the dining room, to the clammy demeanor of the waitron, there is something at Food Ghost to delight the most jaded food fan. By the end of your meal, the ghost of your dining experience will linger in a not unpleasant way. And so I unreservedly give Food Ghost an enthusiastic Four and One Half Groans!

Restaurant Reviews

2010-02-02T15:18:00.001-05:00

I'm collecting my restaurant reviews here

Restaurant Review: Goofball's Comedy Pit

2010-01-30T10:17:00.006-05:00

Those of you who are my devoted followers know that my signature sign-off line is the wonderful "If it tastes funny, don't forget to laugh!" So it may be a bit surprising to you to learn that in all actuality, I don't think comedy and cuisine mix very well. Mix very well? Like oil and vinegar--I mean, oil and water, since oil and vinegar do mix, depending on the quality of the oil and the vintage of the vinegar of course. Anyway. Tasteless comedy and tasteless food can combine into a living hell for the food enthusiast. Just from a public safety point of view, if the comedy is at all funny--which is doubtful--you have an instant choking hazard on your hands. And as you'll recall from an earlier installment, the Heisman Trophy Maneuver or whatever is not the most pleasant experience to undergo at your favorite dining establishment. I don't know who came up with the idea of a comedy restaurant, but this was a huge blunder on the scale of the design of the Edsel--or, if Miss Marianne Moore had had her way, the Utopian Turtletop. Long story. So I was not looking forward to, in fact I was dreading, my visit to, ahem, Goofball's Comedy Pit. I knew that I would be visiting an eatery that would be degrading to the human spirit in every way imaginable. Now, when you think comedy, you think clowns--that's how trite the thinking of the Goofball's corporate offices is, because the entire place is decked out like some kind of ludicrous clown palace. I cringed mentally and I cringed physically when I saw the horrifying stripes on the walls and knew that we all were going to be put into a comedy frame of mind whether we wanted to or not. The hostess, depressingly enough, was dressed in a top hat and tails like some kind of ringmaster or ringmistress or something. "Welcome to Goofball's, goofy guy!" she said in what she assumed (incorrectly) to be a fetching and insinuatingly sly voice. I was seated at a stool at a high table like the kind you see in the lower airport hot-dog stands. One of the legs of the table happened to be missing its foot thingy, so I was forced to fold up an old newspaper to stop its queasy wobbling. The waitron, thankfully dressed not as a clown but in a 1970s pizza parlor cabaret outfit, complete with bowler, appeared after an eternity and offered me a drink. I asked for a soda water. I wasn't going to let alcohol fool me into thinking there was anything amusing about the food or the comedy in this place. Let me report that the soda water, served in a smudged tumbler, was flat as a flat-earther's earth. Nary a bubble was to be seen. The menu looked like it had been reproduced on a mimeograph machine. Each dish was named after an embarrassing Las Vegas comedian. I wanted a hole to open up in the earth and swallow me as I ordered the Norm Crosby Crawdads with a side of Shecky shrimp. The Crawdads tasted like dried-up, rubbery gelatin dessert, and the shrimp were mealy and insolent. While I am completely qualified to judge comedy, I am not willing to overdwell on the so-called comic whose pitiful, desperate quips oppressed me during my stay at Goofball's. Amazingly enough, a laugh track emanated from a speaker in the ceiling during his act. This man, who calls himself simply "The Joke Guy," was convinced that he was hilarious. He did not convince me. I will give you one sample of his "humor," then I will have to take a nap. "Have you ever noticed how people don't talk in elevators? What's up with that. Is there some kind of rule about the dimensions of a room that means there's no talking allowed there? I mean, think about it. Nobody talks to people in closets. I don't do that, you don't do that. Nobody does that. So there's this square footage rule about rooms. It's crazy." I will leave you with that wit that sparkled even less than my flat, dead soda water in the hell known as Goofball's Comedy Pit. My rating? One rubber chicken.

Which song gives you a panic attack?

2010-01-02T20:13:00.001-05:00

End of the Year Restaurant Round-up: Best of 2009

2009-12-27T01:50:00.003-05:00

It's that time of year again. Time to sit back smugly and take stock of the past year. I mean, this year--the year now ending, the year gone by--well, almost. When a nihilistic chill goes through one these evenings, what better way of comforting oneself than making a list? And so, my End of the Year Round-up.

1. Best Menu Font: Speaking of nihilistic chill, hands down my fave font is the grunge inspired lettering on the menu at Flannel's Cafe'. This edgy, "Gen-X"-style alphabet takes my breath--and my appetite--away.

2. Best Toothpick Dispenser: You're joking, right? If there's a receptable devoted to objects made for dislodging food particles in a restaurant somewhere, I don't want to hear about it.

3. Best Background Music: The royalty-avoiding "almost hits" played at the Bitterest Gumdrop are always appreciated.

4. Best Overlooked Crumbs: I like my eatery to be human. And that means I want there to be that little area where the roomba forgot to suck dirt. Goofball's Comedy Pit, you know who you are.

5. Best Mascot: The squeak-toy-inspired Uncle Pig at Pork Belleez is my favorite of the many mascots now roaming the aisles in dining establishments nowadays.

6. Best Gift Shop: The gag items offered at Food Ghost complement the fare.

7. Best Slaw: The piquant, festive, confetti-like slaw at Hieronymo's is still going strong.

8. Best Posted Warnings: The quaint "No Vulgar Talk or Filth" signs at Kerplunk's are a little scary--but in a good way.

9. Best credit-card folder: I know my plastic is secure when I place it into the professional guest-check presenter at Golly's.

10. Best "Please Wait to be Seated" Post. The tarnished brass post at Simply Slop never fails to please.

* * * * *

Well, there you have. Another top-ten list to inspire some better choices next year, or just to soothe yourself when those pane-rattling winds are wailing. Till next time, remember--if it tastes funny, don't forget to laugh!

Restaurant Review: The Peppermint Outpost

2009-12-19T06:26:00.005-05:00

As you know, I have always been of at least two minds about the concept of ample parking. While it does prevent my driver from having to circle eternally around the grounds like some airliner that cannot land, a lot with numerous empty spaces does not give me much confidence in a restaurant's quality. And so I was pleased to see that the five-level parking deck of the Peppermint Outpost was filled to capacity. The reflective sign above the gate (complete with candystriped arm--how clever they are!) proclaimed: "The Peppermint Outpost--where the palate cleanser IS the meal!" I found that charming beyond belief--or else utterly nauseating, I can't decide yet. On swiping my food critic's badge, my driver brought me into the deck and dropped me off at the steel door of the Peppermint Outpost. Thankfully, the interior to the restaurant is less thuggish than the exterior. A wintry decor dominated, complete with fur-lined ice skates hanging from the silvery walls. I was graciously seated by myself at a long table in a conference room where I could dine in peace. The waitron, Miss Figalilly, plumped a comfortable down pillow before me, upon which she then set a clock-sized peppermint candy, different in degree more than kind from the wonderful Brach's peppermint Star Brites of my childhood. I was given a set of mineralogical tools to break the mint up into bite-sized pieces. This was no pillow-shaped mint on my pillow! The next course was a wonderful peppermint bark, laid out beautifully in strips on--this time--an actual plate or dish of some kind. The bark was a bit dry and stringy, but I choked only once or twice, and the manager, Mr. Everett, was quite accomplished in the Heisman trophy maneuver, or whatever. As a palate cleanser to the palate cleanser, in infinite regress, so to speak, and in keeping with the arboreal leitmotiv, I was served some wonderful spearmint jelly leaves washed down by a gentle rainfall of herbal peppermint tea. While I had never enjoyed hot tea dispensed from a showerhead before, I did find the experience remarkable. And so, overall, I am happy to report that the Peppermint Outpost fully earns a grade of Five Ice-Blue Mints!

Hang It Up!

2009-10-30T14:33:00.002-04:00

Two assemblages by Tom Lisk are in the Hang It Up! exhibition at the Gregg Museum of Art & Design at NCSU. Also, two drawings by me are there.

2009-10-19T12:18:00.000-04:00

2009-10-11T04:47:00.002-04:00

2009-09-02T11:11:00.001-04:00

Eric Hoffer

2009-08-24T12:30:00.002-04:00

"When the weak want to give an impression of strength they hint meaningfully at their capacity for evil. It is by its promise of a sense of power that evil often attracts the weak." --Eric Hoffer

proverb

2009-08-06T07:53:00.001-04:00

"if you make yourself honey, the flies will eat you"

"The Shooting of John Dillinger"

2009-07-28T21:08:00.002-04:00

David Wagoner's poem "The Shooting of John Dillinger Outside the Biograph Theater, July 22, 1934"

2009-07-23T17:30:00.002-04:00

Tony Tost work at Octopus with Introduction by the Lucifer Poetics Group

2009-07-22T16:10:00.001-04:00

2009-07-19T19:50:00.001-04:00

2009-07-19T07:48:00.001-04:00

2009-07-18T19:34:00.000-04:00

Jean Garrigue

2009-07-15T22:20:00.003-04:00

FOREST

There is the star bloom of the moss
And the hairy chunks of light between the conifers;
There are alleys of light as well where the green leads to a funeral
Down the false floor of needles.
There are rocks and boulders that jut, saw-toothed and urine-yellow.
Other stones in a field look in the distance like sheep grazing,
Grey trunk and trunklike legs and lowered head.
There are short-stemmed forests so close to the ground
You would pity a dog lost there in the spore-budding
Blackness where the sun has never struck down.
There are dying ferns that glow like a goldmine
And weeds and sumac extend the Sodom of color.
Among the divisions of stone and the fissures of branch
Lurk the abashed resentments of the ego.

Do not say this is pleasurable!
Bats, skittering on wires over the lake,
And the bug on the water bristling in light as he measures forward his leaps,
The hills holding back the sun by their notched edges
(What volcanoes lie on the other side
Of heat, light, burning up even the angels)
And the mirrors of forests and hills drawing nearer
Till the lake is all forests and hills made double,
Do not say this is kindly, convenient,
Warms the hands, crosses the senses with promise,
Harries our fear.
Uneasy, we bellow back at the tree frogs
And, night approaching like the entrance of a tunnel,
We would turn back and cannot, we
Surprise our natures; the woods lock us up
In the secret crimes of our intent.

--Jean Garrigue

Oscar Williams

2009-07-12T22:24:00.002-04:00

THE DWARF OF DISINTEGRATION

I

Who is it runs through the many-storied mansion of myth
With the exaggerated child's-head among pillars and palings,
Holding in his grip the balloons of innumerable windows
And chased by the flowing malevolent army of the ceiling?

It is the dwarf, the yellow dwarf, with the minted cheeks,
With the roots of the fingers, with the wafer-thin cry,
In a maze of walls, lost in the nurseries of definition--
Shadows dance on shins of trumpets in a waning sky.

Voices are wired in the walls, rats are gnawing rumors,
The throat of music is bursting with the leadpipes of lust,
And the giant's face on the dwarf's shoulders is frightened
As the battle sounds strike the panes from the near-by past.

The pillars in the palace are reclining about like pistons:
The horses of parenthesis have run away into the woods:
The king is caught on the vast flypaper of the people:
There are holes as big as hovels in the wall of platitude.

The queen is ill from planting the garden with progeny
And her eyes are crossed off by vicious marks from her face:
She telephones the dwarf who puts his head in the instrument
To find his features come out in glacial coal-bins of space.

The orgasms of distant guns attack at the lustful curtains
And soldiers are standing about in historical knots of lies
Warming frozen tag-ends of lives around the spontaneous
Combustion of bosses who are stoking hollows of hired eyes.

The swine bulge in the snake bellies of the telegraph wires
And bellow under flat clouds of ceilings in the interior;
Communication swallows the quicksilver swords of distance;
Headlines perform, in squadrons of plumes, on the warriors.

But the draughty palace of fable is full of feeble splendor:
The yellow dwarf now in possession of knowing documents
Runs after the newspapers cackling on the edge of freedom--
The golden cupboards tremble for the aging sentiments.

The music of battlefields exhilarates the hidden overhead
And injects into the air a breakdown sense of release,
And the numerals wriggle off the lock boxes of the world
Unloosing a swarm of the venomous vultures of peace.

But the dwarf, the yellow dwarf, with sunspots for eyes
Is hunting in the archives in the moth holes in the palace,
And he tightens the torture boot around the spinal column,
The steel twilight gleaming with the sweat of his malice.

II

Now that the battle is on, keep off the palace grounds,
You can hear the dwarf rummaging in the elephant inside:
It's better to draw a curtain of birds around your eyes--
Fall into the picture book under the thumb of a landslide--

Than to come upon spiders eating the iris of the eyeball,
Glimpse the yellow dwarf digesting the members of princes,
Or see famous paintings loll, like tongues, from their frames
Into a roomful of heroes pretending to harass pretenses.

The sagging structure propped between thought and thinker,
The gilded lawns flow on under the smokescreen of the laws:
The allover attaack of a decaying body infiltrates the atom,
Even the beast in the violin hangs out with lopped-off paws.

Run! run into the first thicket of verbs, the nest of deeds!
Place a skyline between yourself and the grandiose emblem!
For the inquisition wears the hypocritical jowls of a palace,
There's nothing here to salvage, and yours is another problem.

--Oscar Williams

Alex Comfort

2009-07-03T10:00:00.003-04:00

AN ATOLL IN THE MIND

Out of what calms and pools the cool shell grows
dumb teeth under clear waters, where no currents
fracture the coral's porous horn

Grows up the mind's stone tree, the honeycomb,
the plump brain coral breaking the pool's mirror,
the ebony antler, the cold sugared fan.

All these strange trees stand upward through the water,
the mind's grey candied points tend to the surface,
the greater part is out of sight below.

But when on the island's whaleback spring green blades
new land over water waves, birds bring seeds
and tides plant slender trunks by the lagoon

I find the image of the mind's two trees, cast downward,
one tilting leaves to catch the sun's bright pennies,
one dark as water, rooted among the bones.

--Alex Comfort

Friedrich Nietzsche

2009-06-28T09:00:00.004-04:00

"Whoever commits to paper what he suffers
becomes a melancholy author: but he
becomes a serious author when he tells us
what he suffered and why he now reposes in joy."

--Friedrich Nietzsche

Marcel Proust

2009-06-27T23:01:00.003-04:00

"Every day I set less store on intellect.

Every day I see more clearly that if

the writer is to repossess himself

of some part of his impressions, get to something

personal, that is, and to the only material

of art, he must put it aside. What intellect

restores to us under the name of the past,

is not the past. In reality, as soon

as each hour of one's life has died, it embodies

itself in some material object, as do

the souls of the dead in certain folk-stories,

and hides there. There it remains captive, captive

forever, unless we should happen on the object,

recognize what lies within, call it

by its name, and so set it free. Very likely

we may never happen on the object (or

the sensation, since we apprehend every object

as sensation) that it hides in; and

thus there are hours of our life that will never

be resuscitated: for this object is

so tiny, so lost in the world, and there is

so little likelihood that we shall come across it."

--Marcel Proust

Morty "Botanical" Sherbet

2009-06-25T06:54:00.002-04:00

"Mr. Sherbet, do you know where you are?" "Get me out of this thing. It isn't necessary." "Mr. Sherbet. I just need you to answer a few questions. OK?" "I may be insane, but I'm not criminally insane. I don't need to be tied up in this thing. Let me out!" "Those restraints are there for your own protection, as well as that of the staff. Once you answer a few questions, we'll ease you out of that. All right. Mr. Sherbet, do you know where you are?" "This whole thing was Storch's idea. He wants me locked up because I'm on to him." "Mr. Sherbet, do you know where you are?" "The North Pole. And I'm Santa Claus. If you're good I'll bring you a yacht for Christmas." "Mr. Sherbet, I thought you wanted to be removed from that. As long as you refuse to cooperate, you will be restrained. Where are you, right now?" "I'm on a shelf in a grocery store. I'm a can of Vienna sausages. I'm lonely, and I wish somebody would come by and pick me up." "Mr. Sherbet." "No, you're right. That's crazy. I'm on Mars. I got a job cleaning out the canals. It doesn't pay much but the view is incredible!" "Mr. Sherbet, why don't we try another question. What year is it?" "What year?" "What year is it." "I think it's 1066 or something. It's the year of the Norman Conquest. Some guy named Norman took over the world." "Mr. Sherbet, think of how long the night will be with you tied up in that thing. Is that really what you want? Where are you." "I thought the new question was, what year is this?" [Audible sigh.] "All right, Mr. Sherbet. What year." "I think it's 1837." "1837, huh?" "Yeah, 1837, 1836, like that." "And who's the president?" "Martin Van Buren." [Laughter.] "Mr. Sherbet, you're impossible." "Ah, but you laughed that time." "Let's try a few more questions. Who are you?" "Martin Van Buren." "How fascinating, Mr. Sherbet. We've never had a patient before who believed he was Martin Van Buren." "Did I say Martin Van Buren? I meant, Mamie Van Doren." "Who are you, Mr. Sherbet." "I told you, I'm a can of Vienna sausages. My name is Morton Van Vienna-Sausages. I work in Venice. I mean, Mars. No, Saturn." "And what do you do on Saturn, Mr. Sherbet? Surely, you don't clean the canals?" "No. I polish the rings." "The rings, huh?" "Yeah, they're very beautiful rings. Have you never seen the rings of Saturn, miss?" "Let's try one more question and then we'll loosen up the restraints a little." "If there was an ABC store in this place, we could loosen up the restraints a little." "Mr. Sherbet, where are you?" "I know where you are." "Where am I, Mr. Sherbet?" "You're in my mind." "And where is that, Mr. Sherbet?" "In my head." "And where is your head, Mr. Sherbet. Tell me where your head is at." "I don't know! Don't you understand? That's why I'm in this place. I just don't know! I don't know where my head is at!"

Bluto Pippy

2009-06-24T10:29:00.007-04:00

Bluto Pippy found Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton in a booth at the Raspy Puppet and plopped down opposite her. "I did it, Minerva!" Minerva tapped her cigarette against the ashtray excitedly. "Isn't Storch the greatest? I knew that program would be a real shot in the arm for you." Bluto said, "Those were some of the greatest PowerPoint presentations. Ever." He pulled some folded-up pamphlets from his back pocket. "I learned all about if you master your mind, you don't have to mind the masters, and all kinds of arcane hints like that. I didn't realize that the first step to overcoming the Nice Guy Syndrome was to master the self!" Minerva said, "You're so full of enthusiasm about this, Bluto!" Bluto pointed to some bullet points on one of the pamphlet. "Step one is to master the art of concentration. I never thought it would be so...mystical! All those other gurus just teach you ghost-written, canned joke material--Storch, he looks deep into your soul and tells you how to become a kind of mystical expert. Listen to this, Minerva: 'To become a master in the art of concentration, choose a simple household object. This could be a length of wire or chain, a cake of soap, a clock, a sponge, a screwdriver, or a pencil. Go into a dark, pleasant room and sit with the object. Direct an incandescent lightbulb's shine upon the object. Stare at the object for exactly one hour. Look at it as though you had never seen an object of any kind before in your life. Now, before you--'" Minerva grabbed Bluto's arm. "You're not going to read that whole brochure to me, Bluto." Bluto blushed. "I got a little carried away. The information in these pamphlets is so different that I know it's going to make a difference." Minerva smiled. "Now remember, you can't just read the pamphlets. You've got to take action, too. If that booklet tells you to sit in a dark, pleasant room with a common household object and stare at it for an hour, you've got to do just that, Bluto. This isn't like beach reading, it's more like reading a car manual. Or a recipe." Bluto picked up Minerva's cigarette lighter. Minerva said, "You don't smoke." Bluto held the lighter in his palm and stared at the ducks depicted on it. "I'll start with your lighter. The Raspy Puppet is a dark, pleasant place. I'll just sit here and stare at your lighter for the next hour." "Give me that!" Minerva grabbed her lighter. "You're not going to sit in this booth for an hour burning holes with your eyes in my cigarette lighter. You should do step one in the privacy of your own home." Bluto said, "Come on, Minerva. I just got out of the seminar, I'm excited. I can't wait to go home and start the program. How is staring at your lighter for an hour any different from what I usually do in here?" Minerva wasn't smiling. "Bluto, if you keep acting like this, you might as well not have gone to that seminar, because no girl is going to want to go with you." "Sorry, Minerva. It's just, I've waited so long to learn these secrets. I just can't wait any longer to act on them." Minerva's face seemed to soften for a moment. She opened her purse and rummaged through it. "Well, you can't stare at my lighter, but I can give you something you can take home with you to stare at." Minerva held out her hand, showing Bluto a nude figure of a woman carved from red stone. "Take this home with you, tonight, Bluto, and you can stare at it to your little heart's content."

* * *

Bluto Pippy sat in his dark bedroom staring at the nude figurine in his palm. Every once in a while, the figure made a resonant, vibrating echo, startling Bluto. Before beginning step one, he read the pamphlet again, picking up from the point where he'd stopped reading aloud to Minerva. "Now, before you say, 'What in heaven's name could staring at a biscuit for one hour possibly do to cure me of my Nice Guy Syndrome?', you must understand that when you are beginning a spiritual initiation course, you must take certain things on trust. You will not understand at first why you are staring at a biscuit, but stare you do, knowing that this action is bringing you one step closer to your objective. So you have the biscuit. You're cradling it in your hand, staring at it. All other earthly thoughts dissolve into space. As you look at the biscuit, try to think of as many possible attributes of it as you can. Count things. Count the very flakes if you can! How many adjectives can you think of to describe the biscuit? And remember, don't use adjectives of judgment, like good, or bad, or tasty, or appetizing. Instead, use purely objective adjectives. Look at this object so closely that if your life depended on descibing it perfectly you could do so with perfect ease. Close your eyes for a moment and try to remember everything you can about the object. Then open your eyes and look at it again." There was a banging at the door. "Bluto, are you OK in there?" It was his roommate, Hydrox Spurs. Bluto sighed loudly. "No, I'm not OK. I've been abducted by aliens. They're performing some kind of weird invasive procedure on me right now." "You know it worries me when I don't hear movement. Move around a little, why don't you?" How on earth was he, Bluto, ever going to become a master of concentration when he was sharing an apartment with Hydrox? After Hydrox walked away, muttering to himself, Bluto turned his attention back to the pamphlet. "How many things did you recall? How many did you forget or not notice at all? Turn the object around in your hand. Look at it from many possible angles. Bring it up close to your eye--careful! If it's a sharp object or gives off heat or harsh fumes, you won't want to bring it to close to the eyeball. Keep staring and staring and staring for one hour. By doing this one exercise, you will have powers of concentration light years beyond that of the average human. Most people go through life briefly recognizing objects as though they were abstractions. But you, you're different--you're going to truly look, and truly see! So take that object. It really doesn't matter what it is. And stare, stare, stare. For one hour! Go! Do it! Put this pamphlet down right now and get cracking." Bluto put down the pamphlet and stared at the nude figurine. It wasn't exactly a chore staring at this object. Bluto was glad Minerva gave it to him--if she hadn't, he could have been staring at a biscuit right now. As he stared at the figure, it gave off that mysterious vibrating reverberation again. Was he imagining that? And what if Hydrox heard it--the worried and worrisome roommate would be panic-stricken. Hydrox might even really believe that Bluto had been abducted by aliens. Bluto turned the object around and around, viewing it from many angles, just as the brochure had advised. He stared and stared at the object for an hour. Strangely enough, Hydrox didn't interrupt him once. After the hour was up, Bluto kept his gaze fixed on the nude art object. Staring and staring, the nude figurine in his palm, Bluto fell asleep. The sound of the figurine hitting the floor woke Bluto. His hand must have relaxed in sleep and the figure had slipped out of his palm. "What was that? Are you OK?" Hydrox called out. He was probably out in the living room watching the Trash Channel. "No, I'm not OK," shouted Bluto. "I'm possessed by a demon!"

Morty "Botanical" Sherbet

2009-06-23T04:51:00.003-04:00

As Morty had hoped, there were no guards standing outside Storch's office. Morty looked down at the nude chess set on Storch's mahogany desk. The chess pieces were carved from stone. Morty picked up the red queen that Storch had been palming earlier--and talking to. Storch had really gone off the deep end if he was holding conversations with chess pieces. Morty looked at the queen and was struck by her resemblance to Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton. Had Storch chosen the chess set because of this resemblance, or did he have the set custom-made with Minerva as model for the red queen? Morty set the voluptuous queen back on the chess board. From a distance, Morty could hear shouting go up in the conference room. And to think that Bluto Pippy was in that crowd, having his will melted by Storch's insane words. Though there were no guards nearby, Morty still had to work fast. There must be some kind of security system in this office that would notify Storch's henchmen of Morty's presence. Morty's glance went back to the chess piece modeled on Minerva. There was something captivating about the figure--he could almost understand Storch conversing with the stone object. What was the source of the chess queen's power? It couldn't have just been the figure's curvy charms. It was something else--something that grabbed not just the glands but the soul. Morty's glance turned to Storch's bookcase. He ran his gaze along the titles of the books shelved there. The phrase Ancient Fertility Worship on the spine of one of the books snagged his glance. He pulled the book gingerly from the shelf. The book was a hardcover, and according to the copyright page was printed in 1930. Morty flipped through the book. One of the illustrations was of the very insignia that had been featured in the seminar on the banner and robes! But where the insignia at the seminar was abstracted so that you couldn't really tell what it was representing, the version of the insignia in the book made it very clear--the fertility symbol was more than a symbol, it was the carnal reality behind the symbol! And the infinity sign! Fertility and infinity, together as one! Morty slammed the book shut. He placed it back on the shelf and paced in circles around Storch's desk. This wasn't a Nice Guy Syndrome seminar--it was some kind of demonic fertility cult! And that chess piece! No wonder it held such a weird attraction--no wonder it throbbed with a strange, mystical power--it wasn't a chess piece at all. No, it was an ancient fertility goddess! Morty's eyes raced along the spines of the books until he reached a relevant title. Ancient Fertility Goddesses. Morty snatched the hardcover from the shelf and flipped through it greedily. There it was. The so-called "chess piece" was really the statue of a fertility goddess. No wonder Storch spoke to it--he was actually praying to it! Storch was initiating his seminar attendees into a religion that worshiped this goddess. And once they were initiated, they became the mindless, spineless minions of the goddess. And Minerva--what of she? Morty's heart slammed back and forth like a paddle-ball as he gripped the edge of Storch's desk. Minerva...she wasn't human...not really...she was actually a goddess. And not the goddess of wisdom, as her name suggested. That meant...her name couldn't have really been Minerva. It was something else...she wasn't a wisdom goddess but a fertility goddess. The name was a ruse. Morty had stumbled on a terrifying secret. It was too late for those men, too late for Bluto Pippy. Morty shook his head ruefully. "Oh, Pippy, my friend." He thought of that naive, gullible man, looking to Storch for answers. "You're a goner, Pippy. Yes you are. You bet your Pippy, Pluto--I mean...you bet your..." A voice from behind him said, "You're drunk, Sherbet. Why don't you go home and sleep it off?" Morty spun around and saw Storch standing in the doorway to the office. "Storch...you're not here. You're in the conference room." Storch smiled. "Surely you don't believe that I spend all 24 hours in that suffocating room with those losers? I make a quick speech and then leave the rest of the ceremony to my henchmen. I suspected you'd be sneaking around, snooping through my files." Morty grabbed the red queen from the chess board and held it out to Storch. "I didn't have to. I know the secret about this fertility goddess. And that insignia on your robes!" Morty pointed a finger at Storch. "You've...you've dissolved their wills. All those men in that room. They're the fertility goddess's slaves now. What are your plans for those men?" Storch said, "Morty, I know you've been drinking. Before you came here, you were tossing down cocktails at the Health Inspector's Retreat. I know that because my spies are everywhere. The alcohol has addled your brains, scrambled them, you fool." Morty shook his head slowly, smiling bitterly at Storch. "Oh, no. You're not going to dissolve my willpower, pal. You're not going to hypnotize me into doubting what I know is real. You know, I think that's a pretty good definition of the devil--he who makes us doubt what we know to be true. You're a real winner, Storch. You couldn't make it in the avant-garde literary world with your Rate My Cocoa--so instead, you decide to use the mystical energy of a fertility goddess to gain power over humanity. I got to hand it to you, it was some clever plan." Storch had stopped smiling. "I want you out of my office. Now. You are a lunatic. You are delusional." Morty said, "I have found out the truth about you!" Storch said, "What have you found, you paranoid, pickle-brained freak? A chess set. Some old anthropology textbooks from my college days. It's too bad you didn't stay in the conference room for the seminar--I did give you a ticket after all. I thought it would do you some good. You're obviously as sexually thwarted as the rest of those fellows in there. Who else but a sexually unhappy man would see a chess queen as some sinister fertility goddess? Who else but you, Morty, would see some kind of fertility symbol in my organization's logo? What's next, Morty--Key's clam-plate orgy? The word S-E-X printed on Ritz crackers? Once you've gone down this paranoid path, who knows where it will lead! Why not? Go whole hog. Go completely insane, Morty. You might enjoy it. It might be more interesting than the dull, plodding life you lead now." A strange vibrating echo came from the desk. "That fertility goddess is giving off some weird kind of energy, Storch. Once you've unleased these energies, they may get out of your control and turn around to destroy you. Have you thought of that, pallie? And what if the fertility goddess decides to cut you out--she may turn that gang of guys out there against you. Ah, why am I wasting my breath." Storch folded his arms. "Morty, I'm going to give you the opportunity to leave my office of your own free will. You're obviously suffering from paranoid delusions combined with alcoholic hallucinations along with a florid psychosis pattern. I would treat you, but I'm afraid you have something personal against me which would cause a hysterical transference projection and make treatment impossible. Your sexual complex causes you to see threats to your ego in such a simple, harmless object as a simple board game. Heaven knows how you would have reacted had you seen a Parcheesi set in here. Think of everything you've seen tonight as a kind of pink elephant." The weird echo sounded from the chess board. Morty seemed to be pretending not to notice it. "I can give you a referral, Morty, to a very good psychoanalyst. He can help you with this psychosis." Morty said, "I'm. Not. A. Lunatic." Storch said, "My friend, if you don't leave my office in the next minute, I am going to call for a truck to come haul you away like a sack of industrial laundry. Do you understand?" Morty sighed in angry resignation. "I understand. I'll leave now. But this isn't over. Not by a long shot." Storch said, "You have thirty seconds to vacate the premises. Otherwise, I will have you straitjacketed in a rubber room and drugged up for the rest of your miserable life, Sherbet!" Morty said, "You can't do that, Storch. You don't have the power. You can't have me locked up--it's illegal." Storch slipped a walkie-talkie out of his jacket. "Security, this is Storch. I have a madman here in my office, a Morty 'Botanical' Sherbet. This man is nuts. He is experiencing libido freak-out. I need him removed to the state asylum for lunatics immediately. That's right. We may need a few guards to restrain him--he may become violent. Be sure to bring a sedative." Storch lowered the walkie-talkie. "Security will be here in a moment, Sherbet. You and I know you're not insane, but no one else will believe it. I'm a Corinithian column of my community. I am respected. No one will take your word for it when you try to tell them what you know. I will continue to indoctrinate young fools into my cult, raking in the millions, while you, Morty 'Botanical' Sherbet, spend the rest of your life in a madhouse! Isn't that splendid?" So this was it. Storch had the power to have him, Morty, committed against his will to the state lunatic asylum. There was nothing Morty could do about it. If he tried to fight his way out of here, it would only make things worse--Storch would have him thrown into the violent ward. Storch had admitted that everything that Morty had suspected was true. But as a patient in the asylum, nobody would ever believe Morty. And what would become of Bluto Pippy now? Pippy's will had probably been melted already in the conference room. Morty had warned him, but Pippy had already been under the seductive sway of Storch. All Morty could do now was hope that if he pretended that he believed himself, Morty, to be delusional, if he told the doctors in the insane asylum that of course everything he said to Storch was crazy, maybe they would let him out. But if Storch had his way, Morty might not be seeing the outside of the asylum for many years to come--if ever.

Morty "Botanical" Sherbet

2009-06-22T12:39:00.003-04:00

Morty "Botanical" Sherbet sat at his table in the Health Inspector's Retreat watching a microbial acrobat tumble across the paper tablecloth. The acrobat jumped up straight, arms flung out, and Morty applauded. The miniature tumbler took three sugarcubes from the sugar dispenser and juggled them deftly. Morty glanced at his empty martini glass and signaled the waitron for another. Though he was zoning in and out, and the sugarcubes had the appearance of pastel comets drifting above the microscopic performer, Morty still wanted another drink.

Poor Bluto Pippy. Talking with him had put Morty in a sad mood--that's why he kept drowning these drinks that started up the delirium machinery. Pippy truly believed that Storch had the ability to help him, Bluto Pippy, with his Nice Guy Syndrome problem. There was no way in heck that Storch could do that, and Storch knew it. Morty had tried his best to warn Pippy, to keep him from entering into a contract with Storch. Now it was too late. Or was it? Maybe Morty "Botanical" Sherbet should pay Storch a little friendly visit. The little acrobat stood at attention like a chess piece.

* * *

"I'd like to take a look at the contract Bluto Pippy signed yesterday." Morty gave Storch a stony stare. Storch was busy straightening the nude pieces on his chess set in an OCD way. "Mr. Pippy signed a standard contract. In exchange for my services, Mr. Pippy has agreed to pay me 10, 0000 dollars." Morty's jaw dropped like a trap door. "That's outrageous. What could you possibly do that would be worth that much dough?" Storch lovingly cradled the red queen piece in his palm as though weighing it. "The solution to the Nice Guy problem is very advanced knowledge. In a way, this organization is like an occult religion, a kind of secret society. Only those who have advanced to the highest degree can learn the truth. Isn't that right?" This question was addressed to the chess piece. "Do you always talk to them?" Morty asked. Storch said, "The longer you live, Mr. Sherbet, the more you will see that chess pieces and human beings have so much in common that there's no point in distinguishing between them. I find it much more ridiculous that I'm speaking to you than that I've just spoken to the red queen. Do you truly fancy yourself more worthy, more elegant, more finely crafted, more intelligent and spiritual, in some way or other superior to this beautiful object? Do you believe that you, unlike this chess piece, have free will to move about a path that you have chosen?" Morty slammed his fist on Storch's desk. The chess pieces on the board wobbled slightly. "Damn it, Storch, I didn't come here to listen to your dimestore philosophy. Pippy's a good guy, and I don't like seeing him conned by someone like you. You might think he's just some kind of pawn, but he's a human being. Got that? A human being. You can't just treat him like one of your chess pieces. He's a living person, with a heart, and a mind, and a soul." Storch set the queen back on the board. "Are you quite finished, Mr. Sherbet? Because I am a busy man. Tonight is the first new session of my Nice Guy seminar. I invite you to attend. You may learn a few things. You won't even have to pay for the first session." Storch took a ticket from his pocket and handed it to Sherbet.

* * *

The Nice Guy seminar was taking place in a conference room in Storch's office building. The air was heavy with boredom and crowding. Morty stood against the wall near an exit and watched the attendees file in. Some kind of gloomy organ music was warbling, like the kind you'd hear at a funeral. The whole place kind of looked like a funeral. There was a stage covered with flowers, but instead of a coffin there was a lectern. That must have been where Storch would stand to make his sales pitch. Or what came after his sales pitch, rather--the unveiling of the arcane mysteries. What a racket. Sherbet analyzed the men who walked into the conference room. They were all laughing nervously, as if they were lighthearted about the whole thing but at the same time incredibly worried and desperate. They all looked kind of doughy and soft. And each one of them had paid 10 grand to be the recipients of Storch's wisdom. What on earth could Storch tell these guys that would lead them into the arms of a gal like Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton? Sherbet knew what the answer was of course--he'd dated Plankton. That was years ago, but he hadn't forgotten what had attracted Minerva. If he told these guys in this room just exactly what a gal like Minerva was looking for in a man, why this whole place would explode. They would rush the stage and demand their money back--immediately before tearing up the joint, and perhaps Storch, too. But really the answer was so simple, and so far from the kind of snake-oil that Storch was peddling, that if Sherbet HAD told them, why, they wouldn't even listen. They would probably snicker and make some kind of sarcastic comment and then bow down before Storch to receive more of the mountebank's so-called "wisdom." One of Storch's lackeys came from offstage and stood at the lectern. He was wearing a creepy black robe with some kind of sinister insignia sewn onto it. It looked like a horoscope glyph for a zodiacal sign that Sherbet had never heard of. The guy was moving his palms-out hands up and down to silence the crowd. "Folks?Gentlemen? OK. Can I have your attention? Men?" The seminar attendees kept jabbering away like a bunch of crows. "If I can have your attention, we're about to begin the ceremony--I mean, the seminar." That was kind of an odd slip of the tongue. Sherbet filed that one away to think about later. "In a few moments, Storch--" At the mention of Storch, the crowd roared as one. "Yes. Yes. In a few moments, Storch will be speaking to us. Remember, the seminar lasts for 24 hours, and no one can leave until it's over." Sherbet eyed the exits. Some palookas were guarding the doors. "The guards have been instructed not to let anyone leave, even for pit stops." The speaker giggled. "OK, boys, here he is--Storch!" The men in the room chanted, "Storch! Storch! Storch!" over and over. The lights dimmed and a spotlight followed Storch from out of the wings. He was wearing a black robe with the insignia, but his insignia was larger and more fancily embroidered than the one the emcee guy had been wearing. He stepped up to the microphone. "No, no." He shook his head, as if he were amazed by the reception. "Oh, you guys!" He looked at the emcee and smiled, as though he were completely stunned. "Gentlemen. Gentlemen. You're too kind. I'm going to speak to you tonight about the Nice Guy Syndrome and how you are going to lick it. Truly, the reason you don't get girls like this--" A photograph of Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton popped up on the PowerPoint." "The reason you don't get girls like this is that you haven't learned to use your mind power. The first step to being rewarded with this quality of lady is to become a Master of the Mind! Because, gentlemen, once you master your mind, you become the master! First, you are going to learn to concentrate. That is the first step toward mind-mastery. You are going to learn to stare with laser-like focus at a single object for over an hour, and I don't mean your computer screen!" The men guffawed like hee-hawing mules. "Once you have learned the art of concentration, you will apply that art to directing your focused thought and will to a single desire. At first, you will work with something simple. Like maybe that coveted parking-space at your office complex. How your co-workers will envy and despise you when you always seem to snag that sweet space as though your name had been stenciled on it beneath the word RESERVED!" The guys gave each other high fives at the thought of it. "Once you have visualized a relatively trivial matter like that of the parking space, you will move on to greater and greater goals, until we arrive at what you have come to this seminar to attain!" Morty felt his will being melted. He knew the spiel was nonsense and sophistry, but Storch was a trained hypnotist, and his words were dripping into his brain like honey mixed with formaldehyde. He had to get out of this place. "All right, before we begin, I am going to give you one more chance to back out." Morty sighed a heavy sigh of relief. Most of these guys would be too ashamed to walk out now, but he, Morty, didn't feel the social pressure they did. Nothing was riding on him being a part of this crazy group. "If anybody in this room does not feel up to going through the complete seminar experience, he has my permission to leave now." The men in the room, including the beefy guards, booed Morty as he walked out the exit.

* * *

Morty stood in front of Storch's building smoking a cigarette in the humid, frog-singing night. He hadn't seen Bluto Pippy walk into the conference room, but there'd been a huge influx of men and he must not have seen Pippy in the crowd. Pippy was probably still in there, and would be in that stifling room for the next 24 hours or so. What madness! Keeping those guys cooped up in that poorly ventilated room for that long, not letting them leave to get fresh air or bathroom breaks. Of course, that was the whole point--to break their spirits and drive them to and past the brink of madness so that they'd have no will and hand over all their dough to Storch. Morty thought about how the whole thing had the air of some weird mystical ritual. He remembered the weird insignia he saw on the robes. The thing looked like some kind of fertility symbol with an infinity sign on it. What the heck was that all about? Well, there was one way to find out. Storch and his henchmen were busy at the seminar--leaving his office free to search. At least, Morty hoped it was free--he might have to take care of a few of the Storch goons to gain access to the office. Morty scratched out his cigarette, dropped it in a trash-can sized ashtray, and walked back into the office building.

Bluto Pippy

2009-06-21T18:52:00.007-04:00

Bluto Pippy asked Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton for her phone number and she handed Bluto Pippy a business card. "If this man can't help you, you're hopeless, brother." Bluto looked at the card--on heavy ivory cardstock was printed in a stark typeface: STORCH and an address and phone number. "You think you're wise, Minerva, handing out phony phone numbers? Couldn't you just tell me 'no' if you wanted to give me the air?" Minerva chuckled. "Here I am trying to help you out, and you get all huffy on me. That happens to be the number of the greatest relationships guru in the solar system." Bluto crumpled the card up and slipped it into his wallet. "I'll say this for you, 'Plankton,' you sure know how to let a guy down easy." Minerva gripped Bluto's forearm. "I'm not kidding you, pal, that's a regular high-dome character there--a real intellectual! He can look deep into your mind like it's some kind of atom or molecule or something. He'll figure out why the ladies don't like you, and he'll tell you--he'll tell you straight." Minerva glanced at her watch. "Look, I gotta run. I'm expected in a marathon in five minutes." Minerva sprinted out of the bar, leaving Bluto with a bottle of light beer and a heavy heart. Why hadn't Minerva wanted to accompany him to the Unveiling? Did he, Bluto Pippy, suffer from that syndrome that had been going around, that Nice Guy Syndrome? Maybe that Storch fellow had the answers. Bluto reached into his wallet and uncrumpled the card. Storch. His office was on Syndrome Lane. Very appropriate.

Bluto Pippy parked his car on the side of Syndrome Lane and walked to Storch's office. The office was housed in a pebble-covered, one-story building along with a number of other medical professionals. Bluto found Storch's office number on the directory and entered the office. A receptionist who looked like her job was to calm down out-of-control porcupines looked up from her copy of a book called Rate My Cocoa. "So how do you rate my cocoa?" Bluto asked the receptionist. She shut the book. "Are you here to see Storch?" Bluto picked up the book and leafed through it. "You don't look like the type who goes in for the avant-garde poetry scene. I took you for more of a trochaic tetrameter type." The receptionist pushed a button on the desk. "Storch, there's somebody here to see you." An amused voice said to send him in. "Storch will see you now." She snatched the book from Bluto's hand, opened it, and went back to her reading. "Hey, don't get sore," Bluto said. "I dig the egghead scene too, you know." The receptionist turned a page. "Down the hall, second room on your left." Bluto said, "I wasn't asking for directions to the men's room."

"Ah, yes, Minerva 'Sizzler' Plankton." Storch gazed at Bluto Pippy, eyes twinkling over steepled fingers. "She has sent me most of my most desperate clients over the years." Bluto's eyes drifted from Storch's bearded, salt-and-peppered face to the weird and mysterious nude chess set on Storch's desk. "Do you play?" Storch asked, and laughed, the laugh growing louder and louder, more and more animalistic by the moment. "If Minerva sent you here, Mr. Pippy, I venture to guess that you don't play. That you aren't...as they say...a player." Bluto blushed. "I do OK, Storch. I was just curious about what kind of racket you're running here. I thought maybe I could get a piece of the action." Storch looked at Pippy as though he were a ridiculous invention that nobody would ever want but had somehow been patented anyway. "A piece of the action? My goodness, Pippy, you have such a way with words." Bluto jumped out of his chair. "All right, wise guy. What gives. I ask Minerva out on a date and she hands me your card. I tell your secretary I'm here and she's too busy reading some kind of longhair literature to give me any notice. Then I come in here and you've got a naked chess set and a smart mouth." Storch shook his head sadly. "Sit down, Mr. Pippy. If this is your typical behavior, no wonder you're lonely. Minerva referred you to me because she is your friend and is tired of seeing you fail with the opposite sex." Bluto picked up a chess piece--the red queen. "There's a new chemical tank being unveiled in town. I wanted Minerva to accompany me to the unveiling. I told her so and she laughed in my face. I wanted the earth to swallow me up right there, but instead it stayed as seamless as before. Only now, I was feeling about two-feet tall and Minerva was handing me one of your business cards." Storch gestured to his couch. "I can help you, Pippy. I promise you that."

Bluto Pippy still wasn't convinced that Storch was on the level. But he thought that if he stuck around for Storch's sales spiel, he might learn a thing or two about Storch's racket. It turns out Storch was like a factory for turning milquetoasts into lotharios--at least, that's what Storch claimed in his brochures. Storch offered an easy installment plan that would mean the end to a fellow's loneliness. As Bluto sat there taking in Storch's sales talk, he felt himself being almost hypnotized, and crossing that line between cynicism and faint hope. What if this guy was on the level? What if he really could help him, Bluto Pippy, make time with goddesses like Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton? Maybe he should pay for Storch's course. He couldn't lose, really. If it turned out to be a scam, he could learn enough about it to either shut Storch down, or start his own competing business in the advice-to-the lovelorn department. And what if--just if--Storch had a real gift for helping out a guy with women? Then he, Bluto Pippy, might finally have a chance with the marvelous Minerva. Anyway, why would she have given him that card if she hadn't been interested in him in the first place? Maybe she hoped he'd go through Storch's program and become a real man, the kind she, Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton, liked. Maybe she only sent guys to Storch that she wanted to date herself. It was kind of like a finishing school for men--the men that Minerva was secretly hankering for. Storch nodded sagely, looking as though he could read Pippy's mind, as though he knew that Pippy was about to agree to signing up for Storch's course in male-female relationships. "You will thank yourself, later, Mr. Pippy. Congratulations!" Storch thundered. "You've just made the most important decision a man can make for himself. You've made the decision to learn from me, Storch, how to become a winner in this universe." The receptionist entered the office carrying a large scroll. She unveiled the scroll. Written in an elaborate script was Storch's contract. Pippy read a few lines. Pippy's eyes were blearing and the words were meaningless. At times they seemed to make sense, but when he read a sentence more than once it disintegrated into complete nonsense. There were normal words used in weird, highly-specialized technical ways that he didn't understand. The writer of the document seemed to assume that the reader knew what all the terms meant already. And the math! Maybe he shouldn't sign it until he had somebody look it over. "My friend," Storch said, "you aren't going to get all legalistic on me now, are you? Are you some kind of weasel that reads the fine print in contracts looking for loopholes, looking for ways to twist my words? And twist my mind? A written contract is like a handshake between men, Mr. Pippy. If you shook a man's hand, would you analyze his palmprint? Would you have the sweat sent out to the authorities in a crystal ampoule to be identified and analyzed? I think not. So why are you poring over that contract as though there were some nefarious clause hidden there to trap you? Don't insult me, sir!" The receptionist handed Pippy a green marblized fountain pen. "Sign it, Pippy. Sign by the X. Don't be petty, Pippy. Don't be a fool!" The receptionist rubbed Pippy's shoulder. "Everybody's a little scared at first, but the course really works wonders. The guy I'm dating now took it. That's why I was so impressed with his confidence. You've got to sign it, Bluto." Pippy, sweaty fingers grasping the fountain pen, scrawled his signature on the contract.

After he signed the contract, Bluto Pippy met his friend Morty "Botanical" Sherbet at our favorite watering hole, the Health Inspector's Retreat. "I advise you not to enter into any kind of arrangements with that gentleman," Morty stated. Bluto stared at the brochures, which depicted a man ascending a sparkling staircase, at the top of which sat a queen-like figure who much resembled Minerva Plankton. "I know this will help me, Morty, I just know it." Morty smacked the brochure with his hand. "Minerva sits in the Raspy Puppet waiting for guys to hit on her. She gives them Storch's card and sends them to Storch. They pay the exorbitant fees for Storch's course and Minerva gets a cut. Don't you see how she operates?" Bluto put the brochure away. "Once I take this course it'll be impossible for Minerva to turn me down. You're going to see me walk into Algae & Elegance at the Raspy Puppet with Minerva 'Sizzler' Plankton on my arm, on MY arm, Morty, not some other guy's." Morty said, "You've got to walk away from this, Bluto. It's a trap. You cannot take this course. You cannot put your hopes in this man. Storch is nothing but a mountebank. Tear up that business card and forget you ever saw him. Forget about Minerva too and settle down with a nice girl." Pippy said, "It's too late, Morty. I've already signed the contract. I'm committed. Tomorrow's the first day of the course." Sherbet pointed and waggled a warning finger at Pippy. "You will regret that, my friend.You will regret that. Storch is bad news, and Minerva is bad news, and together they make a Sunday paper full of trouble."

Hydrox Spurs

2009-06-18T04:45:00.003-04:00

My esteemed colleague, Mr. Sherbet, is as disoriented as usual. His coarse interpretation of the Nice Guy Syndrome is absolutely nutty, and he knows it. And the bizarre squeakings of Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton only add to this swirling farrago of nonsense. It was a summer evening in my home town of October Settlement, and the back yard was peppered with the pastel lights of paper lanterns. I was thirty-five years old. From a Victrola beneath a palm tree, the tune "Ranch of My Dreams" lilted. Handsome in linen, artiste Hydrox Spurs stood cradling a jelly jar of cognac in his piano-like hands. The summer scent of the perfume of surrendering blossoms permeated the atmosphere around him, along with the sharp tang of freshly squeezed limeade and the floral fragrances of Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton. The dusk of evening had come and gone, and now the summer night had descended on October Settlement like an embroidered hood on a bird cage, stifling the maddening jabberings of the maniacal mynah of day. Hydrox sipped at his cognac, watching bitterly as Minerva flirted with Hydrox's nemesis, Morty "Botanical" Sherbet. Minerva looked splendid tonight in chiffon, and she had no eyes for anyone tonight but Morty. Sherbet, expansive and silly, had a huge stogie stuck between his animalistic teeth like a lead pipe. He was gesturing wildly with his hands, an idiotic grin spread across his cube-like face. And Minerva was eating it all up! What on earth could she possibly see in him? And so when I read the crude commentary of Morty "Botanical" Sherbet on the question of the Nice Guy Syndrome, I know better than to pay any attention whatsoever to what that blowhard is bloviating about. I would sooner listen to Morty's opinions on verse as pay mind to his analysis of so complex a topic as this acutely painful condition. And remind me some day to give you the lowdown on Mr. Sherbet's nickname. "Botanical" indeed! The story behind that one will really send your socks over Saturn, I can assure you. And now he's setting himself up as some kind of relationship expert? He is really a piece of work. Morty, you need to calm down and eat some sprouts or something, because you're really flipping your lid. And the nerve of someone who practically invented the whole basis of this syndrome, the gall of someone like that being willfully naive and pretending he doesn't even know what it's all about, well--that simply cannot be borne. And when I read of Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton--and let me tell you, her nickname has more to do with her appetite for rare beef than any description of her charms--when I read of Minerva plaintively whimpering about how she yearns to meet a real "nice guy," and I recall that balmy evening in October Settlement, when she gave herself to Morty...and spurned me, Hydrox Spurs...the phoniness of it all is truly depressing. And I don't believe for a minute that millions of young men are looking up these phrases on the internet. From what I've heard about the internet, they're trying to find free pictures of Raquel Welch, or whoever the young men are slathering for nowadays. But I'm just Hydrox Spurs, a friendly beacon on this confusing path you walk.

Morty "Botanical" Sherbet

2009-06-17T08:35:00.005-04:00

Right now, all across this crazy scoop of ice cream known as Planet Earth, lonely young men are typing a certain combination of words into their computers, hoping desperately for some kind of answer. They may be sitting in a cubicle at work, a solitary bedroom in their parents' house, or perhaps a college dormitory or a coffeeshop with wireless. But wherever they are, they consider themselves plagued with a syndrome--the so-called "nice guy syndrome." What is this mysterious malady that millions of young men every day are searching the worldwide web for a cure? As we know, a syndrome is a collection of symptoms making up a single condition. What are the symptoms of this syndrome? Who has it? Is it even real? I venture to state that if a couple million men in their twenties are spending their time investigating a syndrome, then at least in their own minds this syndrome must be real. Who are we to judge? And I have seen the statistics. The owner of this web log has given me the honor and privilege of looking over his website traffic reports. These reports are fascinating. They show in great detail information about persons who visit this website--the make of computer, the location of the visitor, everything, even down to the screen resolution they've set on their machine. But the most fascinating thing to me has been what the records reveal about the exact words and phrases visitors to this website have typed into the Google search engine in order to find relief for their most pressing problem. These men type in things like "nice guy syndrome," as you'd expect, but also "how to not be a nice guy," "how to stop being a nice guy," "nice guy cure," and other surprising and perhaps distressing combinations. Now, never in my long career as a human have I, Morty "Botanical" Sherbet (not "Sherbert," damn it!) had to concern myself with being too much of a nice guy, but it does strike me as faintly ridiculous that somebody would want to try NOT to be one. I mean, shouldn't these fellas be searching for "How to BE a nice guy" or "How can I be nicer?" or something along those more enlightened lines? Sure. But you and I know that life isn't that wrapped-up and simple, and in fact, if these guys are suffering from a kind of condition that drives them in the "wee, small hours of the morning" as Francis Albert Sinatra used to sing, drives and compels them to look up answers to this syndrome the way you and I might investigate some troubling, unknown symptom that has alarmingly struck us in the night, well, who's to blame them? We may find their desire to stop being nice to be rather baffling, but there's got to be something at the bottom of this, some genuine pain or frustration, and I think it behooves us as compassionate guys and gals to look more deeply at this forbidden topic: the weird and mysterious thing known as "Nice Guy Syndrome." Let's get a woman's point of view on this topic and take a seat at my favorite restaurant, Algae & Elegance at the Raspy Puppet, with my dear friend Minerva "Sizzler" Plankton, and ask her what she thinks about this whole "Nice Guy" business. Minerva sits across from you in a dim booth, stirring her cocktail, a Radiator as it happens, with an elegant finger, a gleam of glee in her eye as she begins. "Ah, yes, the fabled 'nice guy syndrome.' Simply put, it's a crock." Your eyes bug out like they're novelty-eyes on springs when she says this. "Don't act naive with me, Morty." She stirs her drink faster and faster, causing through centripetal force the contents of her cocktail to tsunami onto the red velvet tablecloth. "There's no such thing on this phony, two-bit earth like a 'nice guy' and you know it. So how could there be a syndrome for them? It just doesn't add up. Every man I've met in this world has been a shark. Why don't you investigate that?" You ask Minerva why these young men are researching the topic, then. "Well, Morty, I don't doubt for a minute that these gents somehow THINK they're nice guys, that they're deluding themselves. Maybe they've got some kind of neurotic complex that makes them act this way, the whole 'nice guy' bit. But deep down, where it counts, do you think they're actually nice? I'd give my left arm to find a nice guy, but I know it ain't going to happen. And by the way, 'ain't' IS in the dictionary, I just checked, so before you start hounding me on my subjunctive modular whoosits, just keep your trap shut. Why do you think I come HERE every evening, to this crazy Puppet place? It's because even though I know there's not a nice guy, at least...not one for me...well, I still believe deep down for some cock-eyed reason that maybe there is. And where is he? He's sitting by himself in his long-johns staring at a computer screen trying to learn how to be a jerk! Jeepers, this world is screwy." Minerva idly fingers the cheese cubes piled up into a replica of Stonehenge that looms ominously on her plate. You ask Minerva, "So--what would you tell these guys?" Minerva snorts. "Tell 'em? I wouldn't tell 'em nothin'. Let them learn the score on their own, the hard way. Look, I gotta go. Talking about these guys has spoiled my appetite." Minerva pushes a button on the table and our portion of the floor moves through a secret moving panel in the wall behind us and we leave the restaurant like consolation-prize winners on a game show being rapidly removed from the stage.

2009-06-15T05:43:00.000-04:00

13,505 Books

2009-06-14T06:53:00.004-04:00

Lately when I've been in bookstores, I've overheard older people talking about how they're never going to live long enough to read everything. "So Many Books, So Little Time" is more than just a cute t-shirt slogan. And there's a book called 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die. Unless I take a speed-reading course and triple my reading speed, I'll be able to read about one book per day. Let's say I live another 37 years. According to Google Calculator, that gives me 13, 505 books I'll be able to read. Obviously, I'm going to have to be more selective in my reading. And maybe that figure isn't even accurate--some books take more than a day to read. It took me at least one summer to read In Search of Lost Time. What about those Russian novels I've never read--how long are they going to take? If they take more than a day to read, that would lower the 13,505 number. And what if I decide to re-read certain books, like In Search of Lost Time? Re-reading would also lower the number of books I'll be able to read for the rest of my life. Maybe I should just make a list right now of the 13,000 or so books I'm going to read and just stick with it. But how long would it take to make a list of 13,000 books? Surely, that would cut into my reading time enough to lower the figure I'd actually be able to read. Maybe one day of planning wouldn't wreck the plan--in fact, it may save it, since I could use that day to decide the best books to read under the circumstances of my mortality. There must be more than 13,000 books that I want to read. That isn't really very many, is it? According to wikipedia, Balzac wrote about one-hundred novels. If I wanted to read all of Balzac, I'd have 12, 905 books left to read. Not very many books at all. And what about days when I can't read a book? I need to start listening to audio books in my car again. And at night, in bed, though they tend to put me to sleep no matter how interesting they are. Maybe if I listen to more audio books I'll be able to finish two books a day, between printed and audio. Would listening to an audio book even count, though? I don't know what to do. I guess I'll have to start testing books, maybe read only the first paragraph and if it's not a five-star book then start something else. I think today I'll work on my list of 13,505 books. I hope working on the list doesn't take much time!

The Seventh Victim

2009-06-13T04:30:00.002-04:00

"This short scene contains a number of the small anomalies that finally make the film such a disorienting experience and contribute to the fascination it has held for its fans (including Carol Reed and Jacques Rivette, who reportedly screened it for the cast of his movie Duelle). The headmistress is actually being kind. But her appearance and tone are sinister. We wonder in passing what she knows about 'that woman,' Mrs. Redi, and how she knows it, though we soon forget this detail as the story unwinds. Nor do we learn why Gilchrist urges Mary to leave, nor why the headmistress summons Gilchrist back with such urgency. (Neither actress appears in the film again.) Mary's affection for the grandfather clock is also unexplained."

--John Ashbery, "On Val Lewton's The Seventh Victim"

Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

2009-05-30T13:21:00.002-04:00

at Quail Ridge Books May 24, 2009

their tour bus

2009-04-17T09:29:00.000-04:00

"The Head Cold" by Bluto Pippy

2009-04-08T22:26:00.004-04:00

Who filled these nostrils with inharmonious,
Uneuphonious stones?
Who filled these nostrils with pillows?
Pillows and dusty, stuffy cushions.
Now there are rills
From my nostrils.
My nostrils have been walled off
With a wall of concrete.
Would that my head
Were carved from a large, cool mint.
I cannot breathe the spring breezes.
I cannot breathe.
The aroma of barbecue
Cannot enter the futuristic furniture of my nostrils!
Nasty bug,
Vacate my nose!

--Bluto Pippy, from Inter-Departmental Mail

Jacques Wool Roast, Continued

2009-04-08T09:28:00.003-04:00

Baldur LeSwig:

Well, Jacques, I wish you could be here in person instead of watching us on the prison television, which, at this hour after lock-down, I understand you had to have special permission to use. Say hello to your guard for us. Being here and not being here in many ways sums you up, a god-like figure to many of us in spite of your readymade suits and thrift shop neckties. “Where else can you get anything, never mind something of this workmanship, for a nickel these days,” you once said to me, apropos your neckwear. But I understand that in there you’re not allowed to have a tie, shoelaces, or a belt.

Your wife, whom I had the privilege of sitting with tonight though we hadn’t previously met, tells me she was instrumental in getting you to relinquish the raspberry beret [in the famous photo], pace the artist formerly known as the symbol for misleading androgyny. Though I know you less well personally than many others here do, I know a side of you that they may not. Everyone knows about your famous charisma, that a man of such ordinary appearance [at least without the beret] can dominate a room full of people merely by walking in, and generous to a fault. Sure you have lots of money and can afford to drink Chateau Le Pinot Puerperal like this every night, at least when you’re at home. And you’re tall and need to lose a few pounds, but that doesn’t explain your A-dog charisma. For that you have to sense sharp teeth. Teeth.

But few here have experienced your ruthless side, a side some orphans and intellectually challenged types know to their emotional cost. Yes, you give away lots of cash, but very little of yourself; I’m tempted to say--nothing. Though I understand you gave your wife the name “Merino,” after you rejected “Alpaca,” “Cashmere,” and “Red,” then spun out a yarn about her about her life before she settled here with you.

Your own early life is a similar mystery, but I’ve learned this evening that after golf-ball sized hail destroyed the town of Pitchdark, you secretly provided major funding toward its reconstruction, and in a spunky act of nature defiance the town council got a referendum passed renaming the town Medicine Ball, which is why people trying to explore your past in Pitchdark on the web can’t find a clue.

Cletus Poise Pine, D. D. S.

In relation to that charming story about time as a magic carpet, I’d just like to say, the accumulation of all time is stashed under a train station platform in New Jerusalem, Idaho. Time takes up no space at all.

I have the honor of being Mr. Wool’s dentist. Though he had ghastly teeth as a child, the problems of his teen years have been ameliorated. He’s quite meticulous about oral hygiene and regular professional care. He was reluctant when I suggested bleaching treatments, but I believe he has been happy with the results. He’s one of my few patients who have learned to control the floss with his forefingers rather than the thumbs, which are much clumsier for anyone, not just for him.

Why should you not report your destiny to yourself using these cards?

[from Tom Lisk]

Jacques Wool Roast, Continued

2009-04-08T09:20:00.002-04:00

[from Tom Lisk]

Aldo Latici, C. L. U.:

The only interesting story I have to tell is about how Jacques once confided in me that a fortuneteller told him he was “a new soul.” Jacques found that information or opinion strangely distressing. It seems he had always felt somewhat unreal, and the “new soul” idea seemed to explain and confirm his self-perception. I thought that was kind of interesting.

Rev. Shearon Barber:

Before I ramble on more than I already have about souls, I should say something about our honoree’s worldly abilities. As to Jacques’ inventiveness, as I started to say earlier, the little legs on the mechanical dachshund turned only as a curious attempt at verisimilitude. The axle, wheel and cam were invented for less mimetic purposes. The result was that the dog looked more real when its legs weren’t moving. For me if not for Jacques, that suggests the seamless and orderly beauty of divine design, both in the fluent movements of a natural dog, and in the inventiveness of Jacques’ mind.

The Jacques Wool Roast, Slice Two

2009-04-07T08:23:00.001-04:00

[courtesy of Tom Lisk]

Jacques once asked me, “Why has no humorous writer won the Nobel?” He was referring to the annual prize for literature given to honor Alfred Nobel, inventor and marketer of dynamite. I couldn’t list all the prize winners, so I couldn’t say he was wrong. “Some of them have funny names,” I said, which apparently satisfied him because he went on to explain that in Arkansas at the time of which we are speaking every small town had a so-called drugstore with a fountain. A soda fountain, he explained, which conjured for me brown carbonated liquid issuing from a bronze cherub’s wee-wee, though that was apparently not exactly what he meant. Anyway Jacques was sitting near this fountain on some sort of stool. I know it’s hard to visualize, but this was years ago. He was looking for a job and apparently the drugstore owner heard him say so, though I’m not sure who Jacques was talking to in the first place. I can’t imagine him just sitting there talking to himself, but maybe he was.

So, according to Jacques, the man offers him an opportunity, if he didn’t mind doing a little acting. Some of you may remember in the early days of black and white television—before my time, of course--there was campaign promoting Spedwag’s Head Powders for headaches and neuralgia. “Spedwag’s, Spedwag’s, if you care/ about your headache and your hair./ Taken with water it won’t make you ralph./Rubbed in dry it strengthens your scalph,” if I remember correctly. It seems this druggist was still compounding aspirin locally and didn’t fully grasp the size and sophistication of the pharmaceutical industry. In other words, he thought if he mounted an advertising campaign, bought some time on a local television channel, and got people’s attention, he could be another Ozymandias Spedwag.

The upshot was that Jacques took the job, and for about a month appeared on television in parts of Arkansas in white tablet form (this was before gelcaps). The so-called tablet, he says, had been stitched together out of at least two bedsheets over a frame made of something like seventeen wire coathangers soldered together. Jacques wore a white sailor’s cap and whitish hightop sneakers. Apparently the films (kinescopes, I believe they’re called) have all been lost or destroyed. The ditty he sang went something like this: “When you are a little ill,/ but not so sick you cannot stand it,/ if you take a Polter’s pill,/ you will always after that demand it.” Polter was the name of the druggist. Where did I find this information? On the web, naturally.

He chose not to join the Lions or the Kiwanis, but we wanted him in the Chamber . . . .

[there was a gap between that job and his later more lucrative career]

The Jacques Wool Roast

2009-04-06T11:27:00.002-04:00

[from Tom Lisk:]

Excerpts from the Jacques Wool Roast

Compiled, lightly edited and tactfully annotated by Arthur Feasibule

Theandrus Bergamot, M. D.:

Those of you who know Jacques Wool as a philanthropist, which is of course most of us, except those from whom he has kept his generosity a secret, for whatever reasons, may be surprised to learn that he began his professional career as an aspirin tablet. Or you may not.

Jacques was living at the time in Pickthanks, Arkansas. This was before he met Merino. Jacques has always been evasive with me about where he was actually born. Since he conquered his speech impediment it’s hard to tell whether or not he has a slight foreign accent, and if so, what earlier language tangles his tongue. But I digress. So you are interested in aspirin. I should let Jacques himself tell this, but his memory isn’t what he remembers it to be, is it, Meri?

You may be wondering at what age Jacques had the growth spurt that transformed him from a white pill the size of a woman’s pinkie nail to the colossal figurine we’re honoring this evening. I assume that’s why the window curtains have been drawn, to help us forget the outer darkness and enjoy the inner light as well as the symbolic meal of beans, bacon, pickles and milk that I see some of you haven’t quite finished. To avoid gastrointestinal distress and discourage internal bleeding, aspirin should, of course, be taken with food or at least with a full glass of water.

[more from the Jacques Wool roast will be posted here in the days to come. Thanks to Tom Lisk.]

Restaurant Review

2009-04-06T02:19:00.004-04:00

Read Jacques Wool's review of Algae & Elegance at the Raspy Puppet.

Who is Storch? (Googlism)

2009-04-05T17:53:00.005-04:00

storch is a well
storch is a scale version of the original
storch is a 3/4 scale version of the original
storch is almost helicopter
storch is a ¾
storch is equipped with a very long

storch is an ultralight aircraft that was designed with those performance features in mind
storch is at least as effective in illuminating thespian passion and the possibilities of a life in the theatre
storch is the first of the 3/4 replicas i came across
storch is a three
storch is
storch is original and almost complete
storch is in 1/72nd scale

storch is fighting to bring materials into her discipline that have been overlooked for a long time
storch is an exceptional short take
storch is that you don't need much of a runway and that's about all we've got
storch is a
storch is a celebrated aircraft with a generously glazed cabin which affords the 3 crew members an excellent view

storch is a very thoughtful
storch is studying the structure and dynamics of a protein involved in electron transfer
storch is one of the most forward
storch is extremely creative with everything that concerns covering and masking
storch is in here

storch is a 'guy'
storch is a platform
storch is no longer accessible from this site
storch is well done externally with fine fabric detailing on all surfaces
storch is in it

--Storch, from Rate My Cocoa

Revertibility

2009-04-04T08:49:00.004-04:00

With the music of their generosity's awkward menagerie
from the spearweed, the gisarmes told us
to explain what we could to the woomera
with the leprosarium, to wash everything,
to secure my descriptor of big laundry.
His picture tube
was in the same management's desmid
beneath the unglacial water gauge,
a game keeper, updating the filibuster
it repeated like raw rondure, to install a wombat--
that wasn't scientific! If their cherry's cupferron
is educational, we were official,
if they were non-eroding. To archive with a crested flycatcher,
to stream their flews into bothering,
every obvious triclinium of their book-learning
to secure their snowblower, every protected ballast,
every unproductive, miscalculating get-together without gradation,
and we liquidized the painterly hayloft in your glass...

--Morty "Botanical" Sherbet, from The Slide Whistles of Autumn

Himantopus Himantopus

2009-04-04T08:07:00.004-04:00

I'm walking down the corrugated iron
of a hot-line in tangent flotage, settling for
the rooming-house of a girn you meant. We like
a song sparrow we feed at the same pilot balloon
my momentum found churl songs. You pulled
the riboflavin from my diary. Pushing a broth across
the wriggling floor, we found an agreement
dropped like a propeller by the spoke
called worse analog, something
we'd dared from chiliasm, a strange trade,
a sad comma.

--Storch, from Rate My Cocoa

Restaurant Review: Cow Patty's Homestyle Steam-it-Teria

2009-04-02T21:15:00.005-04:00

I'm afraid Jacques Wool went off the rails with this recommendation. As a Food Snob, I believed--once--his taste to be impeccable. But in this case I'm afraid that his Restaurant Snooper-Scope is way off. And this saddens. Can the transcendentally snooty Jacques Wool have sent me on some kind of culinary snipe hunt? I put on my snazziest suit tonight and made my way through the fluorescent green glow on Snippety Street to the Steam-it-Teria. Let me state that I was not impressed with the exterior of the restaurant. It looked just like the outside of some weird psychiatric clinic. Not the kind of place I would normally dine. A sneaky pete lay in the gutter nearby. I can only describe the decor inside the place as bizarre. A color television in the corner was blaring some weird movie musical from the late 1960's. The atmosphere of the place was more like a junk shop than a place for fine dining. However, at the time I still believed that Jacques Wool could make no mistakes, and so I endured the decor and stood by the hostess' lectern (I have no other word for it). Screwed into the front of the lectern, gold cursive letters made of some metal read: "We Must Wait to be Seated." The hostess said, "Just one?" Have you ever noticed that hostesses always say "just one"? I think the "what a loser" subtext in the word "just" is clear as crystal. The hostess brought me to my card table and I waited. Did people ever actually play cards at card tables? It seems that people play cards at dining tables. And eat at card tables. At least that's always been my impression. Soon, the waitron appeared. "Here's the menu," he said, "and I can give you a sneak preview--" If you know me at all, you know how enraged I was at that cute little turn of phrase. Sneak preview. "--of our specials." He went on to tell me about the "astounding Sneezeweed Salad" which I foolishly went ahead and ordered. The waitron brought me a drink called The Snooze in a snifter. When it was time for my salad, he stood at my side and chopped it with a snickersnee. Jacques Wool, when you recommended this place to me, were you just being jocular? Zero Parsley Sprigs.

Restaurant Review: The Cat Drag Inn

2009-04-01T09:07:00.005-04:00

Knowing my love of theme restaurants, Jacques Wool recommended the Cat Drag Inn. "If you want an eatery that's all about the cat, then this is the place for you," Jacques said. The Cat Drag Inn is Inn-credible! First, the decor. If you love the black cats featured in Victorian advertisements, then you will love the Inn, since the walls are decorated with black cats selling soap, breakfast foods, and tonics. Amazingly authentic Animatronics kitties sit in recessed areas in the walls, purring and miaou-ing. Sometimes they even hiss! I found that out when I attempted to pet one whose tail was switching. The music played in the restaurant is also tremendous and unbelievable! Among the tunes I heard were a charming version of Leroy Anderson's "Waltzing Cat" and a lively rendition of "Zez" Confrey's "Kitten on the Keys." The Animatronics kitties danced in time to the number. And the employees' uniforms were feline finery! Leopard and leonine leotards galore. The hostess, in a black-cat leotard, brought me to my table near a window where I enjoyed the view of a giant alabaster cat's head sculpture. Soon my waitron arrived and I ordered a cup of Abyssinian Blend coffee and a bowl of foliage. The coffee is marvelous--smooth but with a little bite! Jacques Wool had told me, "When you are at the Cat Drag Inn you must have the foliage! I want you to start living like a human being, man!" The foliage is tender and a great source of chlorophyll. Also, I want to mention that I like to read while I'm eating, and I decided to take a copy of "Rate My Cocoa" by Storch with me to the Inn. The cat's-eye lamp cast down a green glow that was the perfect accompaniment to Storch's verse. If you're looking for a feline-themed restaurant with an encyclopedic menu; if you're looking for out-of-this-world decor and employee uniforms; if you're looking for a pleasant table with green lighting to peruse a volume of Storch's verses, then the Cat Drag Inn may very well be for you! I give it Three Catnip Sprigs!

Restaurant Review: Pho Fur

2009-03-31T22:01:00.004-04:00

I fondly recall the buffets of my youth, and the cardboard signs that hung above the tables. "All You Can Eat" they stated, though that vulgar promise through the years was refined into "All You Care to Eat." Suffice it to say, Pho Fur is a buffet of the "All You Can Eat" not the "All You Care to Eat" style. And that's my style. Once again it was Jacques Wool who commended this particular bistro to me. Leaning back in his chair, Jacques puffed on his stogie and remarked, "There are buffets and then there are buffets. Pho Fur is a veritable smorgasbord. You simply cannot think of it as a buffet. It is impossible. It is simply impossible." And so I found myself standing in front of the smorgasbord wondering what on earth to try first. One container held nothing but dried pear slices. Of course I piled my plate high with these dainties. One of the waitrons growled at me for reaching in with my bare hands, but when I explained that the tongs looked unsanitary, he quickly apologized, sheepishly. I next applied a fine mint drizzle to the pear slices, then topped it off with some flavor flakes from the flake shaker. Jacques Wool had cried out, "A feast fit for a monarch!" And of course he was correct. I set my plate down into the tiny stream that carried it to my table--a nice feature, one that I'd never seen before. After finishing off the tasty slices, I returned to the dessert area to create a dessert mountain. Jacques Wool again: "The desserts are not children's party favors! You must not go in there with those thoughts. That is not what Pho Fur has ever been about!" Wool pounded the table and his ashtray jumped into the air, scattering the ash that protruded and extended from the tip of his nauseating cigar. "We are talking the finest smorgasbord in the region, and you are treating it like a convenience store! What are you thinking!" Disgusted, Jacques glared at me in silence for fifteen minutes. With his admonition in mind, I selected a number of desserts from the buffet, starting with the chocoholic waffles, the marzipan circus replica, and the cotton-candy tumbleweed. The words of Jacques Wool bounced around in my head as I once again set my plate into the servant stream. "Heck, this is only the most important cantina known to humanity! And you talk about snacks. Snacks!" Though I had said nothing at all about snacks, I knew better than to contradict Jacques when he was going into one of his rants. The dessert nudged against the edge of the shore and I lifted it to my table, dripping bright. And for the first time in the history of my vocation as Food Reviewer, I give a restaurant five--not four, or three, but five!--Sprigs of Parsley.

Restaurant Review: Nothing but Ears

2009-03-30T21:06:00.005-04:00

Another Jacques Wool recommendation. The wounded sign with moldy edges hung above the door. Nothing but Ears. At first the name made me a little queasy. But when Jacques Wool speaks, I'm all ears, so I rattled the locked door, knocked with my knuckles, banged with my fist, pressed down on the doorbell, and pounded the door-knocker for at least an hour. An attractive plastic clock in the window read 2 O'clock and said Will Be Back. If it hadn't been for the estimable M. Wool's glowing endorsement coursing through me like endorphins, I would have orphaned my shadow on the doorstep. However, 2 O'clock came around, and I was let into the Nothing but Ears eatery, not knowing what to expect. The place was charming and quaint, much like a colonial inn. The hostess was, I believe, a ghost. She seated me at the long wooden table and handed me the menu. I was apprehensive about reading the menu, as the "nothing but ears" name disturbed me to no end. I expected something horrible. Thankfully,though, the menu consisted of dishes made from ears of corn, as well as that pasta known as orrechia (ears). And so, once again, the images of my horrible fears were replaced by a scene that was quiet and ordinary and harmless and still. "I'll have the orrechia," I told the ghost. "Also, some ears of corn." The ghost vanished in a whirling rope of smoke. Soon a charger of pasta and corn appeared before me. My cellphone played "Funeral March of the Marionette." I picked it up and saw Monsieur Wool's moniker on the caller ID. Wool was chortling. "And so how are you enjoying Nothing but Ears? Is it not the most astounding cafeteria in the region?" I shook my head. "You tricked me, Jacques. I was expecting some kind of creep's chophouse. Instead, here I am in the middle of some haunted colonial inn. And I never knew corn and pasta were such good bedfellows," I quipped. "Did you check out the mural?" Jacques said. I looked behind me and saw that the wall was painted to depict a man in a powdered wig and some kind of colonial tuxedo holding back a velvet curtain. Behind the curtain was row upon row of cornstalks. "That's my kind of art," I told Jacques. He laughed like a dog barking. "Your taste generally runs to lack-blight posters, my friend." After I canceled my phone call with Jacques I finished my meal, paid the tab and tipped the ghost, then walked out into the privileged twilight, nothing but ears, as they say in the restaurant biz. Or at least they do now. Nothing but parsley sprigs.

Restaurant Review: Grackle Grill

2009-03-27T09:28:00.003-04:00

I often dream about the entrances to buildings. I suppose that's why in my restaurant reviews I've often mentioned the entrances and exteriors. The Grackle Grill, another Tom Lisk recommendation, has an exterior that struck me like a nightmare. The place, a cinderblock shed, seemed so obsolete that I couldn't imagine it ever being new. I stood beneath the canvas awning of alternating dark and light green stripes and smelled the harsh concrete dust as I peered through the palm-print palimpsest-smeared window at the diner within. A solitary figure stood behind the counter. Behind him ranged numerous metal kettles, vats, steamers, sinks, griddles, skillets, and grills. The counterman looked at me with a catatonic smirk. I sat down at one of the spinning barstools, stopped it from spinning, and looked through a menu. I looked at the cover of the menu. It depicted a grackle, but oddly enough it wasn't a generalized cartoon or drawing of the bird, but rather a snapshot of a particular grackle. "This your first time at the Grackle?" the counterman said. "Yeah, " I answered. "Is this your first time?" The counterman chuckled as though I'd been kidding. "Well, some would say so." His eyes were a weird artificial color, like cotton candy syrup. He said, "I see you got the menu there. That's ol' Hackle the Grackle on the cover. He was my pet." The thought of this catatonic counterman having a pet grackle disturbed me, so I asked him to recommend something. He said, "Well, the Grackle Crackle is what most folks get." I read the description of the entree. A scoop of ice milk dropped into a cup of seltzer water. Was that the best this place could offer. "I thought this was a grill," I stated. Counterguy said, "The grill gets shut down at noon. You need to be an early bird to eat at the Grackle." A bell above the door jingled. A customer, a man in a smoking jacket, entered. He cackled, then sat down in a booth. "Afternoon, Mr. Draught," the counterman said. He looked at me and said, "That was the Grackle Cackle. When you enter this establishment, you're expected to do that cackle if you want service." How was I supposed to know that? Time stretched on. The counterman once again had that faraway look combined with the smug smirk. I slipped my spoon into the Grackle Crackle, which was nothing more than a glorified seltzer float, and looked over at Mr. Draught who sat reading the local newspaper, The Daily Spackle. When I left, I left a tip. Not the biggest tip I ever left in my life--that's a whole other story--but not the smallest one, either. Before this narrative withers, let me record that I gave the Grackle Grill a rating of Three Parsley Sprigs.

Restaurant Review: The Used Food Intranet Café

2009-03-25T16:48:00.005-04:00

When I mentioned to Tom Lisk's friend Jacques Wool that I was working on a review of L. Green Siena's booklet "The Used Food Restaurant," Jacques said, "You simply must pay a visit to the Used Food Intranet Café! It is the used food eatery in the Southeast!" Bowled over by Jacques' enthusiasm, I immediately ran the sixteen blocks to the place he'd recommended so highly. I'm happy to report that Jacques did not steer me wrong. The Used Food Intranet Café is a marvel. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the biggest fan of the whole "used food" concept, but the The Used Food Intranet Café knows how to prepare and serve previously-enjoyed comestibles so you wouldn't even know the difference. And the intranet access! Incredible. Because it's intranet, and not internet, access, you don't have to worry about being distracted with some irrelevant, timewasting website. Instead, you explore the world of The Used Food Intranet Café! Puzzles, quizzes, games, job applications, message boards, and more--it's as though the outside world didn't exist, which for me is the main draw of a dining establishment. Let me describe the setting. Picture yourself walking (or running) down a sidewalk in the hot sun, on a stiflingly boring afternoon. Up ahead, to your right, is a strip mall. In the window of one of the shops is a generic Open sign. Above the door of the white building is painted the name of the restaurant in block letters. Enticed, almost seduced, by this exterior you stagger into the canteen. Rows of blunt tables with laptops greet your eye. On plastic trays rest paper plates covered with indistinguishable pureed victuals. No customers. You choose a table, choose a laptop, and eat gratefully what has been put before you. My meal was hardly tasty, but I learned from the nutrition guide on the laptop (and remember, these laptops have been glued to the tables with Elmer's glue!), the food mounds are injected with vitamins and minerals. After a few sizzling quizzes, I grew thirsty. Luckily, a stainless steel sink with a spray nozzle waited invitingly, as though it had been placed there just for my refreshment. I returned to my table, had a few more bites to eat, registered with the Used Food Maniacs club, and ran my credit through the self-waitron near the door. Overall, the kind of civilized dining experience that is so rare today. I give the Used Food Intranet Café four pureed Parsley Sprigs!

Restaurant Review: Carryon Comfort Food

2009-03-24T09:09:00.006-04:00

Inspired by a recommendation from Tom Lisk, I had lunch the other day at Carryon Comfort Food. From the red plastic signage to the "Hospitality Counselor" standing near the door, everything about the entrance and exterior gave me the feeling that I was in good, decent hands. A crowd of perhaps 300 people waited in the barn-like architecture of the "Appetite Depot" under glaring halogen lights. Luckily, the wait was not long, and a widescreen television entertained the guests with a documentary film, played at an impressively loud volume, about the history of Carryon. Finally, the hostess seated me. The menu, a touch screen set into the shellacked wooden table, was more user-friendly than most. My server appeared a few minutes later and offered me a non-alcoholic alkaline water, which I declined. Instead, I chose a plot-driven beverage titled "A Stroll in the Park." I demanded that the drink be brought to me in a mug with my monogram etched in the glass, however the waitron politely told me that would be impossible. The drink was, though, served to me in a bread cup, which pleased me. After my appetizer, the excellent fruit-leather plate, I was served the entree, the King's Ransom Platter. This amazing anthology of home cookin' was everything I've come to expect from the Carryon Comfort Food brand. From the Battered 'n' Splattered Pork Planks to the Low-Carb Hush Puppies, this kaleidoscope of flavor was nearly excruciatingly pleasurable. Now let's talk about dessert. The dessert menu itself was a work of art! While the freshly applied oil paint smeared a bit during handling, the menu was beautifully done. I chose the Decadent Rewards Ice Milk and was well-rewarded indeed! Though I ordered the chilly treat to be served to me on a 78 rpm record of "That's a Plenty!" as performed by the Suave Gents, it was merely delivered on a plain plate. Of course I sent it back. The Vera Vulture mascot character was sent to my table to placate me, but all the exaggerated hand gestures and head-shakings of someone in a vulture costume could not convince me that I was in anything but the culinary equivalent of an insane asylum. As I stalked out, the manager jogged at my side, peppering me with nonsensical questions. To make my point, before I walked out I grabbed a handful of toothpicks from the Take One bowl (for my replica of the wicker man). Overall, not a bad experience, but the presentation of the dessert was somewhat lacking. I give this restaurant (the term used advisedly) Two Parsley-Sprigs!